


In the Breaking

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Break Up, Cheating, Fluff and Angst, I don't even know how to tag this, Implied Relationships, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Please Don't Hate Me, Possible Happy Ending????, Self-Esteem Issues, What Have I Done, Will add more tags as this fic progresses, i'm trash for this one, past drug abuse, possible getting back together?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three weeks. Three weeks, 67 failed phone calls, 75 un-replied texts, and 23 unanswered voicemails…</p><p>They've had moments where they've gone without speaking for longer before but this…this is different. It's deafening, it's heartbreaking, and Pete knows it's all his fault...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rose Petals Falling on the Floor, like Shattered Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not part of the Coffee and Vinyls series, thought the next installment for that one is coming up soon. This was just angst that had been building up for so long.
> 
> All mistakes and grammar errors are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks, 67 failed phone calls, 75 un-replied texts, and 23 unanswered voicemails…they hadn’t talked for over three weeks… not since Patrick walked in of him. It was the longest they’ve gone without a single word to each other, sure there were other times where they had not physically see or heard each other’s voices for months on end, but there was always some form of communication: an email, a text, a late night phone call or hilarious picture messages they would send each other. But this…this was different. It was deafening, it was heartbreaking, and Pete knew it was all his fault.

_Patrick had texted Pete about an hour before be landed, telling his fiancé that he had a surprise for him. Everything had gone according to plan, the tour was done and totally successful, and he had managed to snag an earlier flight home along with the crew, after the last show, and yes Patrick was exhausted beyond belief, but he’ll be seeing Pete sooner than he thought, which made all this worth it to know that he’ll be waking up in his own bed to familiar whiskey colored eyes come morning._

_It was a mad dash as they finally landed, Patrick frantically waving and hugging goodbye to his crew, rushing to leave, while his manager stood shaking his head with a chuckle calling out something about post-tour celebration dinner the following night. Patrick really didn't pay much attention, but it wasn't that he didn’t care, he just needed to_ see _Pete_ now.  _H_ _e got into his rental (he’ll return it in the morning after he picks up his own car from his apartment) and headed down a familiar path he knew by heart. He could almost feel himself jumping out of his skin at the thought of seeing Pete, face to face, after so long, and it didn’t help that the smile on his face wouldn’t fall from his lips._

_After twenty minutes, he finally pulled up to a familiar sight, noting Pete’s car in the driveway of his house (soon to be officially ‘theirs’ when Patrick finishes up his lease and moves everything from his spacious apartment), and parks his rental car beside Pete’s, leaving his suitcase in the trunk and shouldering on his carry on backpack._

_Patrick knows he probably looks terrible, there’s still a bit of eyeliner smudged around his eye from his stage make-up (‘You gotta make those gorgeous eyes of your pop, Pattycakes!’ he recalls Hayley saying, eyeliner in hand.), his hair is a mess, and although it’s a brilliant platinum blonde, his roots are beginning to show and he can’t wait to dye it back to his natural strawberry blonde color, and not to mention he’s still in his stage button down dress shirt, forgoing the tight fitting black pants for his favorite worn jeans and his loved ratty converse for the flight. It also doesn’t matter he smells vaguely of post-concert sweat thanks to the shirt, but right now, all that matters is that he’s finally going to see Pete after all this time. The hard thing about touring, as Pete and Patrick have learned over the years, each with their own bands, is that phone calls can only do so much, and while Skype and Facetime were heaven-sent, it was still lonely at times. Nothing beat standing toe to toe with your fiance, feeling a warm body next to yours, while being wrapped up in their arms._

_Patrick been missing that so much it aches, but that'll change soon._

_In his excitement  and haste he fumbles a bit with the keys, finding the spare Pete had given him to push the door open, only to be greeted by the awkward lack of sound, which was odd even this late at night._

_Something immediately doesn’t sit right in Patrick._

_Pete has a horrible habit of leaving on the television, or even leaving his music on repeat, to fill the quiet empty void of the house, something Patrick has grown accustomed to over the years, which he knew it was due to his bouts of insomnia; Pete had complained about it in their last text, right before his final show nearly five hours ago that he was having trouble sleeping, so the singer had expected some sort of noise to filter through the house. But, there was none._

_“Pete?” he called out into the seemingly empty house, making sure to check his fiancé’s small home office and the living room. Maybe he just exhausted himself enough to actually sleep, he thought as he quietly climbed the stairs up to their bedroom, something gnawing at the pit of his stomach._

_But as he made his way to the landing of the second floor, he could distinctly hear the soft sounds of quiet grunting, and hushed whispers that he couldn’t exactly make out coming from down the hall that lead to his and Pete’s bedroom. Patrick walked closer to the bedroom door, finding it slightly ajar, as he approached he could hear the sounds getting slightly louder, one of them distinctly sounding like a groan from Pete, one that Patrick was all too familiar with. But instead of sending a pleasant shiver down his spine like it usually would, it made him more cautious, some sort of dread filling up the pit of his stomach at some unimaginable rate, he really couldn't describe it. As he pushed open the door as silently as he could, every part of his body felt numb as he looked upon the scene revealed to him._

_There in bed, in_ their _bed, was Pete thrusting into another body, another man, who was holding on to his fiancé for dear life. The other man threw their head back in ecstasy, reaching up to bring a hand around Pete’s neck to drag him down into a sloppy, heated, ragged kiss. Even as he continued to fuck the stranger (skinnier, prettier, and the total opposite of Patrick with dark hair, olive skin, and tattoos peeking along the thin thighs, at least from where they were wrapped around Pete’s waist) in their bed, Pete littered the body below his with searing kisses, his rough pace never ceased as moans freely escaped their lips whenever they parted. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” gritted out Pete when he gave the man he was fucking a particularly hard thrust, to which he cried out softly, back arching, eyes squeezed tight in pure pleasure._

_And it was then that Partick felt his heart shatter into a million pieces right before his eyes, that everything he and Pete had, the moments where Pete had whispered that exact same phrase to him, in the exact same bed, the same bed that Pete had actually proposed to him in almost seven months ago, the same bed where they had fucked and made love countless times over the last five and a half years, the same bed where Pete had reassured him, even before, during, and after his weight loss, even back when the critics targeted his appearance and not his music, when the younger was at his weakest and most vulnerable, that Patrick was nothing but beautiful and utter perfection, that deispite what venom was sent his way, nothing would ever change that, that Patric was all Pete could ever need…all of that was now ripped right from his chest with an unforgiving hand, and smashed at his feet like crystal hitting the floor with a single soft sob falling from his lips._

_It was then, at that exact moment, that Pete’s ears catches the faint sound of a sob amongst the wanton moans filling the room. His body becomes paralyzed with fear, shock and dread, and fucking guilt as his whiskey colored eyes fell on brilliant, shimmering greenish-blue hazel. Pete feels his stomach drop as ice runs through his veins. “Patrick…” he whispered out, hurriedly moving away from his one-night stand, who looked just as scared and shocked at the singer in the doorway._

_Pete didn’t know what to do, what to even fucking say as he watched Patrick’s expression twist into shock, confusion, disgust, and fury, eyes shining with unshead tears as he stood stock still in the doorway. As Pete opened his mouth to utter another word, fumbling for what to say, Patrick quickly turned, a flash of while darting from the door, making his way down the stairs in a blind haste. "Patrick! Patrick! Please!”_

_The singer could barely hear his name being called as he raced towards the outside, unable to physically stay in the same place, desperate to get out, to get as far away as possible, as the voices he had pushed aside so long ago in his head return to taunt him with glee, their words flooding his mind…’You thought you were so special, huh?’ ‘See, he could never love someone like you.’ ‘Still fat and a fucking failure, you can’t even keep your fiancé interested.’_

_He makes his way out the door, vaguely aware of his name being called from the top landing, of Pete desperately throwing on his basketball shorts, nearly tripping over them as he hears the front door slam shut. Patrick refuses to listen, he doesn’t look back as the voices ring louder in his ears. He claws at his pockets for the keys to his car, and in a matter of minutes, he's in the passenger seat, starting the car with a shaky hand, and is driving away._

_The phone in his pocket buzzes, and when reaches a stop sign, he digs it out, and sees a picture of Pete, a day after he had dyed his hair blonde, sleep heavy eyes barely opened and a soft genuine smile on his lips wrapped up in blankets. As soon as it stops buzzing, it starts again. He shuts off his phone and throws it to the passenger seat where it bounces on to the floor._

_He doesn’t realize where he’s going until he’s pulled into the parking spaces of his apartment complex, with anger still boiling in his blood, he shuts off the car, jams his phone into his pocket where it laid on the floorboard and takes his belongs up to his room. He locks the door behind him, drops his things, and makes his way to his small yet lavish kitchen. He stands there, leaning against the counter top…_

_._

_Four_

_._

_His phone is off be he just knows Pete is trying to call him, but that’s the last thing he wants right now. Everything feels numb and cold, his mind is reeling but melting down at the same time trying to comprehend what he just saw_

_._

_Three_

_._

_He’s trying to convince himself that he just saw things, it was a figment of his imagination, a cruel fucking trick his mind is playing after nearly three months of non-stop touring and less than a week without a proper five hours of sleep he usually needs to function. But even Patrick does knows it's real as he feels the tightness in his chest growing…everything is getting to close, to small, he can’t fucking breathe and everything just feels so wrong._

_._

_Two_

_._

_He doesn’t know anything, but in reality he knows far too much now and tries to sort it out. All Patrick knows is that he’s back in his barely lived in apartment, it’s 2am in the morning, and he caught Pete in bed with somebody else…whispering words and breathing out moans that were meant to be only for Patrick. He caught his fiancé…_

_._

_One_

_._

_And that’s when he beings to break, could feel himself cracking under the stress, the lack of sleep, the endless nights of touring and stage lights, of nameless faces he doesn't know, of coming home to Pete and..._

_His breaths are coming out in labored pants as flashes of what he saw keep playing in his head and the voices get louder. He hears Pete’s groans, the soft cry of pleasure from the body underneath, the kisses, the legs wrapped tightly around his waist…_

_._

_Zero_

_._

_Patrick grasps his phone and starts hitting it against the counter in blind rage and jumbled emotions, tears clouding his vision as his slams the case covered phone against the hard granite of the counter repeatedly as the images replay, as Pete’s sex drunk voice whispers “Fuck, you’re beautiful” to the body that wasn’t him , that wasn’t Patrick, replays over and over like a broken record. Grunting and cursing as each blow landed, he didn’t let up, not until his arms grew tired and the voices and images faded away, leaving his sore, broken, empty, raw, and so fucking cold it hurt._

_He tosses the phone across the room with a strangled cry of raw emotion, not knowing what good it would actually do him, before finally, finally, succumbing to the tears, loud anguish sobs wrack his body as slid down to the cold, unforgiving floor, his arms coming around himself as he lays his head on his knees, not caring how pathetic, how goddamned broken he sounded, he didn’t care about who was listening, all that matter was the pain of everything he ever knew, everything he ever trusted shattered at his feet . He was drowning in the sea of voices he once thought were long gone, but that now flooded his mind: ‘He played you liked he did everyone else before you….used his golden little harp until he found something new to play with…’_

_As dull light glinted off his engagement ring, a simple, smooth silver band with an intricate and elegant line of onyx wrapped around it, he felt like everything was mocking him as he slid the band off his fingers, glancing inside to read the fine engraved words within it: ‘You’re the only place that feels like home”. It was like a fucking stab the heart, but as he grasp the ring as tightly as he could, ready to fling it across the room, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when images of Pete smiling as he slid it on his finger played in the back of his mind…_

_He couldn’t do it, not now..._

_As tears continue to fall from his eyes, sliding down blotchy red cheeks, he carefully stands, holding the ring tightly in his hand before placing it on the counter of the kitchen; he can’t bear the thought of bringing it with him, but he can’t get rid of it…not yet... And somehow, he finds his way to his bed, takes off his clothes and crawls under unfamiliar sheets._

_He thinks he could hear someone knocking at his door, but his cries and sobs are louder, as he slowly falls into his own mind. Eventually, he falls into a fitful sleep, not knowing that Pete was banging on his door, begging for him to open up, shouted apologies falling on deaf ears while his own tears are running down his cheeks as he falls against the door._

_Pete calls for Patrick one last time, broken and desperate, but Patrick doesn't hear...he's too lost in his own dark ocean to even respond._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, feedback, kudos, and even prompts are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	2. Poison Spreads like Wildfires in July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word about that night get out faster than Pete was prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments, responses and kudos! I'll try to update this whenever I can, and thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> All grammar mistakes are mine, and this fic is un-beta'd, so I apologize for any miswording or confusion ahead of time. Tissues are at the bottom, just so you know 
> 
> Enjoy.

Pete manages to find his way back his house- not a home, never a home. Home was always where Patrick was. Home was safe and sound with his arms around his waist, gentle, chaste kisses to his temple, to his neck, Patrick’s fingers slotting perfectly with his. Home was the sound of Patrick’s sweet laughter at some stupid joke, and heated glares after Pete says or does something stupid, and that smile that was only reserved for him, small but genuine, and perfectly  _Patrick_  . It was sleepless nights and lazy mornings with the strawberry blonde singer under the sheets, his soulful voice lulling his own demons away, his warm, soft frame so close to his.

This was wasn’t a home, it was a fucking prison.

Pete is greeted to the sound of silence. He’s sure his temporary bedmate is gone by now, not that he really cared, but the deep bone chill that settles in the pit of his stomach is clawing desperately at his insides.

As he stands cold, boneless, and numb in the foyer of the house, in his mind’s eyes, all he can see the twisted mix of emotion etched onto Patrick’s face, the way his eyes widened, panicky movements trying to get away as fast as possible, the tears in his eyes that  _he_ had put there…

Pete’s eyes are puffy and red, his heart is beating out of his chest and all he can process is  _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick…Patrick’s gone…_  He wants to trash the house, the house that was supposed to be  _theirs_  (but now its nothing without him), he wants to smash every mirror,every glass, shattered the very imagine of the man who distorted the singer’s beautiful smile into a grim expression of disgust and hurt, who made the tears fall from blue green eyes. He wants to scream until his throat turns raw, he wants to hurt, wants to destroy, wants to so desperately do anything in his power to bring the his beautiful fiancé, the love of his miserable life back into his arms…

But he doesn’t.

He just crumples onto the floor and takes in the empty house, the still, the quiet…it’s too much for him to bear… So all he does is cry whatever tears he has left, his manic high from hours ago leaving him drained and worthless.

This house it not a home. Patrick was home, and now it looks like he was never going to find his way back… 

He wakes up to the shrill ringing of his phone the next morning and is amazed that he finds himself on the sofa. He doesn’t exactly know how he ended up there but right now it doesn’t matter, his head is pounding, his eyes feel swollen shut, and the phone seriously needs to stop fucking ringing. He feels around blindly for it before his fingers slide along the familiar screen, groaning as he answers and brings it to his ear.

“This is Wentz,” he answers groggily, a hand scrubbing over his face. Everything feels slow, the way he moves, the way he talks, time, it feels so damn slow…

“What the fuck did you do,” hissed a voice from the other end of the line…It’s Hayley, Patrick’s make-up artist and one of his best friends. “You motherfucking asshole. What. Did. You. Do?!”

“Hayley wha-”

“The tabloids, TMZ, even fucking  _Tumblr_ , what did you do that made Patrick lock you out of his apartment and made you scream fucking ‘I’m sorry’ at a door for an hour straight,” and shit...someone heard, hell, how could they not, someone heard and sold their dirty laundry to the media.

He scrambles to his laptop and looks up TMZ and sure enough, the headline is there, mocking him, laughing in his face in bold black letters and a bright red background.  _PAAATTRRICKK!! Trouble in Paradise for Arma Angelus bassist and the Golden Boy? Read more for Details!_ And then right above that headline a new one pops up, something just updated, and his heart could sink any deeper, it would.  _Wentz Caught Cheating? The Hook-Up Reveals All!_

“I’ll ask you again, Peter….What did you do....Patrick so fucking miserable, I've never seen him like this. He pretty much cried himself back to sleep when I came to check up on him...” she gritted through her teeth as Pete sunk back into the cushions of the sofa, the screen on his laptop displaying the not only him, but to the world, the events of last night, and everything flashes before him again and again, it feels like a fucking record on repeat and he wants it to stop, but he can’t…

“Hayley…I fucked up...I don't know what-” That was all he needed to say, because Pete knew Hayley had read the articles, had probably coaxed something out of Patrick (God, the image of his beloved fiancé sobbing shattered him), and she knew, Hayley wasn’t stupid, she just wanted a confirmation.

“Where you on your meds, Pete?...Please don’t make this worse than it already is.” To anyone else, it was an odd question for someone to ask, but to Pete, he knew why. There’s a hint of desperation in her voice, Hayley doesn’t want to confirm the truth, but he isn’t about to lie to her, not when she was one of his direct lines to Patrick.

He sighs sadly as his head falls into his hands, fingers clawing at his skull, yanking on short bleach blonde hair. “No.” And he heard Hayley curse under her breath. He hasn’t been taking his meds, he hadn’t taken his mood stabilizer when he became manic, and he didn’t call Patrick like he was supposed to whenever he was in one of his manic ‘moods’. Maybe if he had, none of this would have happened, he wouldn’t have gone to the bar, he wouldn’t have mixed alcohol with his mania, and Patrick…and Patrick would have been here, with him, spending the morning together with him in bed, sleeping, catching up, becoming reacquainted with each other’s bodies, but instead, none of that happened. Pete was alone in this godforsaken empty house while the media was taking to the news like sharks.

He hears her sigh before speaking once more, her voice steady but low, and that was when the petite flamed hair young woman was at her most terrifying. “I can’t fucking believe you, Wentz…” she starts but stops, to which Pete is grateful, he doesn’t need a reminder slammed before him that he may have possibly (most defiantly) ruined the one good thing in his life that he had going on…hell it was already out on the internet for the world to see. “We tried calling him, but luckily Joe and Patrick’s manager David, have spares to his apartment,” So that’s where Pete’s spare key to the apartment had gone, he remembers giving it to Joe for some reason or another, but that really didn’t help the situation now.

“I need to see him Hayley, I need to-”

“Your ass is not going anywhere near him, do you understand me,” she replied sharply, his voice like venom, finding the direct line to his heart. Hayley was always protective of Patrick, not that he could blame her, but he always felt comforted that the singer had surrounded himself with such caring friends, especially when he went on tour.  

There’s a silence that falls between them before the call-waiting beep comes over the line, his heart stops are he pulls away, the screen flashing a number that he doesn’t have saved, but is familiar with, nonetheless. It’s a tabloid, probably some reported wanting the know the scoop of what happened the previous night, if it was true that Pete had cheated on the one person he was never too shy to say was the love of his life and his reason for living. Those words tasted bitter now, tainted with hypocrisy.

“Listen, you’re my friend Pete, so is Patrick, but this…I can’t even believe you…I don’t care if you were manic when all this happened but Patrick, Patrick doesn’t deserve this.”

His chest tightens at the mention of Patrick’s name, the thought of Patrick lying motionless in bed, the tears in blue green eyes, look of hurt on his beautiful face…He put that there, he was the reason, and he doesn’t even know how he could forgive himself for the mess he just threw them into, and now, the media was drawing to it like blood in the water.

“Tell him I’m sorry, Hayley,” his voice cracks on her name. There is a weight settling on his chest that’s making it hard to breathe, hard to function. “Please, just…just tell him.”  _Tell him I need him back, I need him here with me, and I will do whatever he says just so I can hold him in my arms again…_

“I don’t know if I can do that Pete.”

And the lines goes dead, and the phone clatters to the floor, just as a choked sob leaves his lips, everything he had ever cherished, slipping from his fingertips.

His phone rings again. It rings over two dozen times. The same unknown numbers.

And Pete’s too caught up in his grief and his guilt to even answer them.


	3. Choking on Halos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know with this chapter... but I finally updated.
> 
> All errors are mine as this is unbeta'd
> 
> Enjoy

_“Can I ask you something?”_

_“You’re actually asking permission first?” Patrick chuckles lightly, hair mussed, lips bitten a gorgeous shade of pinkish red, that’s borderline adorable and downright sinful, and Pete wishes he could take a picture, not only of the singer’s lips, but of Patrick in general. The only light in the room was coming from the large floor to ceiling window of their bedroom, the light from the moon casting an intimate, ethereal glow over the two bodies, stated and clinging to each other in the large plush bed. Patrick’s skin is paler in the moonlight,_

_The finely made suits that they wore to the award show, where photographers snapped pictures of the couple, holding hands, arms around each other’s waist as they posed for pictures, stealing chaste kisses and talking to fans and various reporters about Patrick’s nominations, were now scattered and rumpled along the floor of the bedroom, only a thin sheet covering up their modesty as they basked in their afterglow, both of an practically fairy-tell night, Patrick winning three out of four of his nominations, and equally amazing post-award show sex._

_Pete kissed the top of the singer’s head, nuzzling his nose against blonde-red hair while running his fingers along his spine, following the gentle curve from the base of his neck to the small of his back, a chuckle on his lips as he continued. “Yes I don’t want to seem rude,” he chuckled after taking to moment to mock offense, to which Patrick only scoffed, snuggling closer to his side, to which Pete happily ran his fingers through soft, strawberry blonde hair._

_Pete’s voice was softer now, his guard down as they laid in the dark room, the light from the windows being all he needed to see the gorgeous man beside him. “What are you thinking about, ‘Trick?”_

_Patrick hums for a moment, his own fingertips drawing along Pete’s chest in fine, masterful strokes, like a painter with a paintbrush. “Five years ago,” started Patrick, thinking back to when he was 22. “I was just a kid with a guitar on a street corner, barely getting through college and living off of tip money…I had no idea where my life was going, and now…I have everything I could have ever dreamed for and more,” he looks up and smiles at Pete. “People are listening to my music, I’m being paid to do something I love and winning awards for it to boot. And on top of that, I have the most amazing boyfriend, who has stood by my side for the last four and a half years through the good and the bad…I don’t think anything could ever top this,” he smiles, sinking back into the warmth of Pete’s chest, eyes fluttering shut as he listens to the beating of the strong and steady heart beneath tan skin._

_“What if…what if something could?”_

_Patrick perked up at that last part, his eyebrow raised and his eyes looking quizzical. Sitting the both of them up carefully, sheets pooling around their waist, Pete opened the drawer to his night stand and rummaged its contents for a moment, before pulling out a small box, smaller than the size of his palm, wrapped in blue paper._

_Pete could feel his heart racing and the blood rushing in his ears as he watched Patrick, beautiful, loving, amazing Patrick, his saving grace even in his darkest of days, his home, his fucking everything. And what he was about to do could very well fuck him over and bite him in the ass, but it was worth a shot, and he couldn’t think of a better time to do this, when they were both bare and unguarded, at their most vulnerable._

_He motions for Patrick to sit with him, his back to Pete’s chest as he wraps an arm around the singer’s slender waist (a part of him wishes Patrick would put back on some of his weight, the softness of his body was still there, but he could begin to feel the sharp angles forming. Pete always thought he looked beautiful, but he kind of misses the extra softness of his body, especially around his waist and stomach), as he kisses his shoulder from behind, trying to hid his face as he places the box into the strawberry blonde’s hands._

_“What is it?” he asked quietly, turning the box over in his hand, admiring the calming shade of blue, even in the low light of the room._

_The bassist smiled against his shoulder. “Open it to find out,” he muttered with a smile into the warm skin of his shoulder._

_Patrick looks back at Pete, before fingers carefully rip off the paper, revealing a small white box. Pete feels his heart about the burst out of his chest and run away as he watches, holding his breath as the younger man removes the lid. He can feel Patrick’s breath hitch as he sees a small black box within the white, and he mentally prepares for the worst, as he watches the blue-hazel eyed singer take out the velvet box._

_He could see Patrick’s fingers trembling as he lifts open the lid, an audible gasp leaving sweet, soft lips, and Pete feels his world stop cold, as he just watches for a moment. Patrick’s eyes are wide and shocked, his mouth, that amazing, talented, sinful mouth, opened in a small gasp, his body ridged as he looks at the ring pillowed within the box, it’s a gleaming silver, smooth and untouched with a line of black, most likely onyx embedded around it. In a way it looked simple, nothing too flashy, but elegant enough for other to know its importance, its meaning._

_Pete had a speech planned out, a long winded, poetic verses about how, after meeting Patrick at the record label years ago, his life had completely changed, he wanted to be a better man, a better person for Patrick. Pete wanted to tell Patrick that he saved his life more times than Pete could ever repay him, and that he was the light, his reason for being, and the one person he knew he couldn’t live without. He wanted to spill his heart and blood and his entire being out on the soft silk sheets of their bed for Patrick to see, but he couldn’t find it in him, his mind drawing blank, as all he could focus on was this, this moment, his arms around the warm body of his saving grace._

_Nuzzling the soft hair at his temple with his nose, he leans down slightly so that he are close to his ear and he breathes out hesitantly, scared and afraid as his heart beating fast like a hummingbird's wings as he asked, words trembling softly as they fall form his lips…_

_“Marry me?”_

He watches the gleaming silver and onyx ring, twirling it carefully between his fingers as he lays in bed. Patrick has yet to put it back on his finger, not since that night. He just…he can’t bring himself to do it, and it a weird twisted way, he felt like it was choking him. There’s something so powerful and meaningful behind symbolism of the ring itself, an everlasting circle, unbreakable, undeterred. He scoffs lightly as he forces back tears, oh the fucking irony.

It’s been about week since he walked in on Pete and of those seven days, three of them were spent in his room, mostly underneath the sheets, crying, angry, and oh so fucking miserable. But he didn’t know what to do, how to really describe what he was feeling. It just fucking sucked and felt so empty...

The morning after the ‘Incident’, yes with a damn capital ‘I’, word got out, probably one of his neighbors heard Pete yelling for him at his door and reported it to TMZ. Not that he heard it over his own fucking sobs. Hayley had come in to check on him after she found out, only for Patrick to breakdown against her, explaining to his most trusted friend, what had happened. He doesn’t remember much after that, just falling back to sleep with a dull ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away. The next time he woke up, Brendon and Dallon were there, having brought comfort in the form of Chinese Takeout, which was eaten between the four of them in silence until Patrick retreated back into his room. He knew they mean well, he just didn’t want to talk to anyone.

The next day, his manager stopped by his room with his phone, which was amazingly still intact and was not broken or smashed to bits due to his beating he gave it against the counter and the air-bound trip across the room (He really needs to thank Joe for bullying him into buying an Otterbox case), and sets it on the counter with another, still in the box brand new.

“With all the commotion, I got you a new number. I’m suspecting if you even turn on your phone, not only will you get bombarded with people trying to get interviews with you, but you know what else,” he sighed sadly, as he makes a vague reference to Pete. “Your family already has your new number…your mom has been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday, I just told her you needed some time, and that you would call her soon.”

Patrick nodded slowly, his eyes glazed with tears everything feeling so numb, as his manager talks to him a little more. The tour was huge success, the album is selling beyond expectations, and they want to sign Patrick up for a few shows at various award shows and events within the next five months or so. “But only if you’re up for it Patrick…I know I pushed you in the past, after this past tour, and…what happened, I won’t make you go to or attend anything you don’t want to, unless it’s absolutely necessary…I hope you understand that.”

Another nod before his manager looked at him with pity, and sadness, and squeezed his shoulder lightly before heading out. Patrick could overhear him say to Hayley, who had become his keeper since the news hit the internet, to take care of him.

“A broken heart is not something that’s easily patched up, man. Especially when you know how close those two were…”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs.

Everyday, after that, Hayley tries to get him up and out of his room, to see the light of day, and to eat some real food for once. They argue and get into a bit of a screaming match the third day, and it ends with Patrick crying after he screams back “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO FUCKING DO ANYMORE, DON’T YOUR GET IT!?!? I CAUGHT THE ONE PERSON, THE FIRST PERSON I EVER TRULY LOVED, WHO I WOULD DIE FOR FUCKING ANOTHER PERSON IN OUR BED. I DEPENDED SO MUCH ON HIM THAT I CAN EVEN FUNCTION PROPERLY KNOWING HE THREW ME ASIDE FOR SOMEONE BETTER THAN ME. I…I can’t-” Hayley ended up holding him that night as he vented and sobbed into her shirt once more. He felt pathetic, weak, and so fucking shitty.

Things got a little more bearable, he avoided E!, TMZ, articles with his name on them, as much as possible, didn’t answer any calls, except for his mother’s, siblings, and friends, nearly all of them with the vague offer of kicking the shit out of Pete Wentz, but Patrick would tell them to drop it, and change the subject.

But, although he could try to avoid it, he knew the Incident was the industry’s latest soap opera, and he really couldn’t hide from it, as much as he tried. But hoards of paparazzi and flashing lights and recording cameras were a stark reminder that his personal life was something of a fascination with the media.

“Patrick! Patrick! Is it true that you’re going to call off the wedding?” “Have you talked to Pete?” “Mr. Stump, how have you been doing?” “Has Pete cheated on you before, Patrick? Are you going to forgive him?”

He keeps his head turned down as he walks across the street with Brandon, who insisted on Patrick coming to Starbuck with him, and to face the public to show that in fact he wasn’t dead, as one stupid media outlet reported. “Patrick! Patrick!” calls another paparazzo, taking a picture of him and Brendon as they walk along the sidewalk.

“You guys really don’t have anything better to do than to harass him, huh?” sighed Brendon as they walked. Patrick was used to the paparazzi, learned that ignoring them, and not giving in was what drove them away. There were a few that he did acknowledge, like Trey for TMZ, but he wasn’t in the crowd and Patrick really didn’t feel like talking to his vultures. He just wanted some damn coffee.

“Patrick? Where’s your engagement ring? Is the wedding off?”

“Jesus! Will you guys just fuck off, just so we can get coffee?” asked Brendon irritably as Patrick pushed up his sunglasses as they approached the Starbucks. Once they’re safe inside, the manager kicks out everyone with a fucking camera who tries to follow them in; Brendon sighs and removes his own sunglasses. “Okay, maybe this was a bad idea. Sorry Patrick.”

“No, I’m going to have to face them eventually,” he replied, taking in a deep breath. “Thank you, though, for everything, Bren…you and Hayley, and Joe, have been with me ever since…last week…I really appreciate it.”

Brendon smiles at him. “Dude, you’re our friend, famous or not, we’ll always be here for you, man.” Patrick returns his smile, just not as bright, nor as wide, but it was a smile nonetheless. They order their coffee, and one for Hayley, and once collected, they head back out to face another round of flashing lights and overlapping voices. Patrick picks up his head a little higher, Brendon sticking close to his side as questions hurled at him at lighting speed.

“Patrick? So are you going to continue singing?” “Are you going to switch record labels since Pete’s band is on your label as well?” “Where’s the ring Patrick?” “Are you seeing anyone else?” “Do you think it’s true that Pete might be back on doing pills again?” “Patrick so is there going to still be a wedding?” “Did you know the guy Pete slept with?” “Did you hear that Pete might have slept with more than one person while you were on tour?”

“Lay off already guys! Sheesh!” mutters Brendon as they enter the apartment complex, leaving the paps at the gate. Patrick thinks he can hear a squad car approaching as the paps scatter like ants in the rain. He doesn’t think about their questions. He knows sometimes they say things just to get a reaction out of him, to make him act out for the cameras to catch, but he knows how to ignore them, how to keep his cool, even when he feels like he was breaking.

About 30 minutes after the arrive, his manager calls, telling him that someone in the media (actually quite a few) posted a picture and new rumors are being spread about his lack of a ring on his finger. “Just wanted to make sure you were aware for the next shit storm that’s going to come,” he says with a grin he can practically hear. “I’m glad you went out today Patrick, I’m glad Brendon was with you too.”

Patrick gives his thanks and watches as Hayley brings up the front page of E! news, and, low and behold, there is a picture of him and Brendon, coffee’s in their hands, and a close up of his own hand, sans silver and onyx ring. The headline reading— _Is the Music World’s Wedding of the Year Off? Patrick Stump Steps Out Without Engagement ring._ Scrolling a little further, there is a picture, taken about 6 months ago, of Patrick and Pete, walking hand in hand, Patrick with a coffee in his hand and the ring on his finger. The long time couple were smiling brightly, and something tugs at his heart, and everything begins to hurt again (it never really stopped hurting, and Patrick thinks it never will, at this point).

“Damn, shit travels fast,” says Brendon under his breath.

“Yeah, it does,” the strawberry blonde mutters back, disappearing into his room and returning with the ring in his hands. Hayley and Brendon watch him as he fiddles with it, his eyes on the border of sad and thoughtful, mixed with hurt and a dash of fondness. He carefully places the ring on the coffee table, and stares at it.

So much joy, pain, and commotion one little ring could bring...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever to update, but thanks for sticking with me! 
> 
> If you have any suggestions feel free to leave them here or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Thanks =)


	4. Falling into the Riptide, Slipping Back into the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah...I'm just going to leave this here...

_Pete walks through the door of his house, tossing his keys into the bowl by the side table, as he shrugs off his jacket and throw it somewhere towards the general direction of the coat rack. Patrick might bitch at him for it later, but the pounding in his head is taking its toll, and all he wants to do is sleep, to fall into the warmth and security that is arms of a certain strawberry blonde singer and rest his racing mind._

_Yeah, that sounds like one hell of a plan._

_He calls out for Patrick, as his footsteps echo through the vast expanse of the living room, but when he receives no answer, he deducts that his boyfriend is in the bedroom. Their bedroom. The thought makes something blossom in his chest, warm and comforting, and feeling right. But if Pete was being honest, everything about Patrick feels like the missing piece of the puzzle he’s been stuck on for years, and years, and even since Patrick came into his life, it just felt right from the moment he’s set eyes on him in that crowded record label party. And despite all the interviews, all the laughs, and jest, he really can’t put a finger on it, on them, because what’s between them is so indescribable, it defies everything, it’s like there’s a unbreakable bond, an unspoken understanding, all Patrick has to do it grace him with the gentlest of touches for the bassist to melt under his fingertips, to make the darkness, that lingers in his ever racing mind, rest and retreat back into the shadows._

_As he reaches the landing of the second floor, he makes his way over to the bedroom, pushing open the door as quietly as he could when he catches his beloved curled on their bed, his back to Pete. He’s silent as he takes in the scene before him, the way the light from the window plays along the room, the sun lit glimmer of strawberry blonde and lovely pale skin peeking out from where the hem of one of his well-loved t-shirt had ridden up. Pete notes he’s still in his jeans, sans shoes, and looks to be sleeping, and Pete the warmth in his chest as he stands vigil in the doorway._

_However, a soft sniffle and a hitch in breath breaks the silence, and sends Pete into a state of alert._

_“Patrick?”_

_The body of the singer goes rigid for a moment before he sits up, looking over to catch Pete’s eye. Patrick’s hands run over his face, particularly his eyes in a haste as he stand, walking over to the dark-haired bassist. “Hey…I-I didn’t hear you come in,” Patrick says with a small smile, his eyes looking slightly red-rimmed, as if he was…crying?_

_He leans up slightly to greet Pete with a chaste but gentle kiss, his hands coming rest on his Pete’s chest. “How did the interviews go?”_

_“It went fine,” he said gently, his own bass calloused fingers moving along his cheek. “Trick…are you okay? What’s wrong?” his voice dips to a whisper as he leans in closer, kissing Patrick’s cheek._

_“Nothing…it’s-it’s nothing,” he starts but Pete knew he was hiding something, there was a reason behind the red in his eyes and the dried tear tracks down his cheeks. His thumb caresses over them, as they move back towards the bed._

_“You were crying…”_

_“It’s nothing Pete,” the singer tries to reassure, but his smile fades when the phone in his pocket dings. He takes it out, shutting off his notifications, before leading Pete back into bed._

_“It’s gotta be something, Trick, for to have been upset,” his voice his low and gentle, he doesn’t dare raise it, because if he does, Patrick will shut down and that’s the last thing he needs, and Pete’s starting to feel a surge of protectiveness come over him._

_“It’s nothing, just some stupid comments-”_

_His phone dings again, and Patrick let out an aggravated sigh as he fiddles with the screen once again. As he’s fighting with the phone, Pete easily takes it out of his hands, despite the singer’s protest._

_The notifications were to a tweet that Patrick was tagged in. Pete clicks on it, and reads the headline to the link, which vaguely implicates Patrick’s weight. The said singer’s quiet, green-hazel eyes averted as Pete scrolls through the article, scowling at what he reads. It’s a stupid article written by some has-been manager or something, and he targets Patrick’s weight rather than his voice, dragging Patrick down despite blooming record sales. He makes a comment within the article that states something the effect that the singer was nothing but an overweight has been, who doesn’t even belong on the charts,…Pete’s jaw tightens and his eyes go cold._

_When he reads the comments, Pete wants to hunt down the motherfucker who wrote the article and tear him limb from limb. And while there are some rather nasty comments, fans have voiced that they are more than willing to do the job for Pete themselves._

_“I told you, it’s something stupid-”_

_Pete pulls him down onto the mattress, moving so that his body hovers over Patrick’s, as he kisses him with such tenderness, he could see the tears in his eyes when he pulls way. “You’re right, it is something stupid, and that asshole is fucking wrong,” Pete says as his knuckles caress the length of his cheek, watching as lashes flutter against his cheeks as his eyes shut at his touch. Pete’s lost in the scene below him, at just the image of Patrick looking so gorgeous and pale, and yet the sadness and uncertainly in his body. “You’re so perfect,” he whispers as he kisses Patrick once more. “I know you’re still worried, still self-conscious, and I know that shit like that gets to you, but, I want you to know that you are so fucking beautiful.”_

_The tears are falling from Patrick’s eyes now, and he wipes them away with the gentle sweep of his thumb, leaning in to his cheeks and then trail down his neck, loving the way he feels Patrick’s body hitch when he kisses a sensitive spot on his neck, feeling the singer’s pulse beneath his lips._

_“I know, even after all this time, you still don’t believe it, but, if I have to, I will spend the entire night, and the rest of my life proving to you how beautiful and perfect you truly are,” he whispers against his neck as Pete trails up a hand underneath Patrick’s shirt, causing the strawberry blonde to arch into his touch._

_“I love you, and I’ll protect you from those monsters…I can sure as hell try…”_

_Patrick sighs into Pete’s touch, letting out a small gasp from pale lips as he feels Pete’s thumb graze over his sensitive nipple, as he captures his mouth once more, whispering against his lips and into his ear how beautiful he was, how much he means to him, how talented the blonde was, and that Pete was so proud of him for being so strong. Pete wouldn’t stop until Patrick was floating in praise and reassurance, because that’s what Patrick needed when the cruelty of the world reared its ugly head. Pete would always be there for him, and would never allow him to break or be broken. Something as precious and as pure as the younger man beneath him, should be protected, and he would do everything in his power to do so._

_“Pete…I-”_

He waits in the back of an empty little café, his fingers dancing along the edge of a chilled glass of water as he waits.

It’s been a little over a week and a half since…since that night, and Pete hasn’t slept, has been able to function properly in the last eleven days. There are still no answer when he calls he dails his number, and even know, as he looks down at his phone, his thumb lingers over Patrick’s picture, bright eyes, an even brighter smile and his favorite bold rimmed glasses he always wore on the occasions he didn’t wear contacts. He had taken that picture before he had started tour, before he bleached his hair blonde, and that particular picture was taken when they were looking at outdoor venues for their wedding…

_‘Now there’s not going to be a wedding, you ruined the only good thing in your life.’_

Pete clenched his fist against the table, pushing the thought away, even though the truth sank deep within in him and weighed him down like a stone…He doesn’t want to admit how many times he thought about taking all his Ativan because of his stupid, selfish-

“Hey, Pete.”

Pete looked up to see a familiar pair of tired brilliant blue eyes and a mess of curly dark hair. Pete smiled (attempted to, he wasn’t too sure how genuine he managed to make it look) as he stood and hugged his closest friend and bandmate. “Joe Troh.”

Joe returned the hug before clapping his hand against Pete’s shoulder in a comforting gesture, before taking a seat. As soon as they were seated, a waiter came in and took his drink order, and when he was out of sight, gave a half grin over the bleach blonde bassist. “How have you been, man?” he ask gently, his voice soft and real.

Pete sighs, running a hand through his hair, pulling tightly at the strands in the back as he let out a dry chuckle. “I can’t fucking function, Joe,” he says with a sad smile, his eyes looking down into his own glass of water, a muddled reflection of the monster that hurt his fiancé looking right back at him. “I..I don’t know if I can fix this,” he confesses softly as the waiter returns with Joe’s drink, and then leaves.

Dark curls bounce slightly as Joe nods, looking sadly over at his best friend, a man who he wholehearted considers his brother, hell, Pete’s even his daughter, Ruby’s, godfather. It pains Joe to see Pete so miserable, but at the same time…they both know very well that it’s Pete’s own fault for his situation.

Pete’s the one that breaks the silence between them after a moment, sad brown eyes not looking up from the dark table top as he speaks. “How is he?”

Pete’s stomach clenches when he hears Joe’s somber sigh. “Do you want it sugar-coated, or do you want it straight forward?”

“Does it really matter?” Pete knows that either way he says it, it’s going to hurt, he’s going to regret asking no matter what the outcome will be, but he just has to know.

Joe looks as his best friend with a forlorn look, his hands coming to claps around his cup. “He’s...he’s doing a lot better from the day after, he’s going out for coffee runs with Brendon…he’s out of his room for more than an hour most day, but…”

“But?”

“You…you broke him, man. I don’t know how else to tell you.”

Pete squeezes his eyes shut at the image of Patrick in the doorway of their bedroom, and the look up shock, anger and disgust on his face, and his body feels cold. He remembers when he first called Joe the day after, hours after Hayley called. The mental image of Patrick curled up and sobbing in his bed, from what Joe had told him he walked in on, forever burned into his memory, his heart aches just at the thought.

He caused that. He’s the reason’s Patrick is broken, he’s the reason why the light of his life, his beacon through the night, had dimmed so much that there was barely just a flicker in his eyes. And how does he know that? Well, the vultures with cameras are to be thanked, snapping every picture of Patrick and of Pete whenever the opportunity arises. He’s seen those captured moments of Patrick, the way his eyes no longer light up, holds himself with such fragility that at the wrong touch, he was sure to shatter.

And Pete’s the reason behind that, and everything feels hollow and empty.

He became the monster he swore to protect him from.

But Pete still clings to hope, as least grasping at the fine silk threads of it as he tightly as he possibly can, as he still catches glimpses of a ring on Patrick’s delicate finger. It’s foolish, yes, but he still hopes, still hopes that maybe, just maybe…But the bassist knows better than to wish, than to hope, especially since he’s the poison that’s tainted his light.

“Hayley and Brendon are taking care of him?”

Joe nods once more. “As best as they could. Brendon coaxes him out for Starbuck runs every now and then, and Hayley’s making sure he’s… I don’t know, man, living? Has someone to talk to?”

“That’s good,” he mumbles softly.

“I’ve talked to him a few times…he’s doing as good as he can, but he’s still hurt…he asked me about you.”

Pete’s head jerks up at that, eyes wide and questioning, but hopeful nonetheless. “What?” he ask dumbly.

“Two days ago, the last time I saw him, he asked me about you.”

Pete’s hesitant as the question stills on the tip of his tongue, not knowing if it was right to even be asking Joe, but he can’t help it.“…What did you tell him?”

Joe smiles sadly, meeting his best friend’s eyes. “The truth. That you were miserable, guilt-stricken, heartbroken at your own actions. I told him about your self-loathing, and the fact that you had to call me last week to hide your meds because you were manic and paranoid.” Even Pete had to admit that was one of his lowest points, and even though he wasn’t full-on manic at the time when he called Joe, he knew that if he even crossed that line, he would do something impulsive and drastic, which he did, except, since he didn’t know where Joe has hid his Ativan, he went for the next best thing, liquor. Pete woke up the next morning with tears running down his face, the sour taste of alcohol on his tongue and his home office trashed beyond belief…His own mood stabilizers couldn’t even imped the disaster that occurred that night. Sicken with grief and guilt at what he had done, he asked the singer in their band, Chris, to come over and help him get rid of his liquor, which was probably the only smart decision he made that night, besides curling under the covers of his bed with one of Patrick’s old shirts. Pathetic? Yes, but what else could Pete actually do.

After all, he put himself into this mess.

Pete takes a long drink of his water, the cold stinging its way down his throat, as Joe eyes him sadly, but doesn’t dare utter a word.

The subject changes to recording Arma’s new album, which is far from being even half way completed. The guys had been kind enough to put a pause on production since the incident and due to Pete’s mental health. Chris and Joe have been his go to people as of late, but it’s Joe that Pete leans to, only because Patrick is a mutual friend, a rather close mutual friend. Joe is also the reason they had met in the first place, and Pete swears to the heavens that he owes the guitarist his life for bringing him the last five years of happiness in the form of a shy, sassy, beautiful singer.

But all that is gone now.

They talk for another hour, Joe’s hand resting over Pete’s giving him a reassuring squeeze, saying something about coming over to his house so he could spend some time with his goddaughter. Pete gives him a small smile at that, and says to let him know when.

Pete leaves sometime later, sunglasses on and walking out of the restaurant, stone faced and ready to face the onslaught of paparazzi, flashing lights, shuttering cameras, and faceless questions being hurled his way. The curly haired watched his best friend leave and sighs, finishing up his drink.

Joe couldn’t bring himself to tell Pete that the last time he saw Patrick, there was an absence of gleaming silver and onyx.

Joe couldn’t add to Pete’s heartbreak…he just couldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash. 
> 
> So...yeah. I'm sorry this took forever to upload, I've been fairly busy (and stressed) with my big girl job.
> 
> Thank you for your support! Feedback, comments, and kudos are very much appreciated! If you have any suggestion, feel free to leave them in the comments or drop one off on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you! =)


	5. We could dance under the stars (or fade in front of them)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever since I uploaded, but it's finally done, so I'm just going to leave this here....
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Come on.”_

_“No.”_

_“Dude, pleeeeaaassseee..”_

_“No Pete.”_

_Pete sticks out this bottom lip makes it tremble slightly as if he was about to cry, whiskey colored eyes wide and shining in the soft light of the lanterns._

_“Pretty please Pattycakes…”_

“No Pete!” _an exasperated singer sighed, readjusting his fedora, looking away from his boyfriends of almost 19 months (yes, he’s been counting, but apparently so has Pete, so sue him) with mocked annoyance as his attention turned back to Joe and Marie, the bride and groom, as they swayed side to side on the dancefloor to a slow, sweet, but jazzy beat. “And don’t call me that…” he added with a slight huff before continuing. “Besides, it’s still their first dance…”_

_Patrick waited for his boyfriend to say something, to come back with some witty remark, but not a word was uttered, or maybe there was, but Patrick wasn’t really listening. He was too lost in watching one of his best friends dance with his new wife in the middle of a lantern lit ballroom, looking like the happiest idiot in the whole universe._

_The ceremony itself was beautiful, nothing too fancy really, despite there being a fair amount of people; a fair mixture of friends, family, and extended family, but nothing overly extravagant. With some of Pete and Patrick’s help as his groomsmen, Joe cleaned up nice, and Marie looked absolutely stunning. The reception, too, was simple. And now, he was watching them move across the dance floor for their first dance as a married couple, Marie’s hand pressed to Joe’s heart as he smiled and whispered something into her ear that made her giggle and grin, it made Patrick chest bubbles and burst with happiness for his best friend._

_“It’s great seeing Trohman like this,” he hears Pete say from beside him where he’s seated at the table, all traces of jest and joking leaving him as he watches alongside Patrick._

_Patrick nodded in agreement, smiling as he watches the happy newlyweds. After the dance ends, Joe and Marie share a sweet kiss as everyone claps and whistles, the DJ then announcing that anyone and everyone is welcomes to join the couple on the dance floor. Another relatively slow but sweet song comes on and some wedding guest join them._

_Patrick’s too preoccupied watching Joe and Marie bask in their bliss to notice Pete standing up from his seat and holding his hand out. “So…what do you say to a dance now, Stump?”_

_Patrick smiles sheepishly. “I don’t know Wentz, I’ve got too left feet…plus I’ll turn into the entertainment for this party…” he adds with a sarcastic roll of hazel blue eyes._

_“We’ve been dating for about, what, a year and a half now? And I have yet to slow dance with you, dude,” the dark-haired boy replied, fingers reaching out to tug on the brim of his hat. “And don’t kid yourself, I’ve seen your moves in the studio Stump, and you’re hips don’t lie…not at all,” he winks, a mischievous stupid smile on his lips, that makes Patrick’s cheeks flush scarlet and his heart race miles a minute._

_“Shut it Wentz, or you’re head home alone,” he threatens with an attempt to glare, but it comes off looking more adorable then frightening. Then without a moment’s hesitation, he gently takes Pete’s offered hand as he stands._

_Pete smiles as he leans in and pecks his boyfriend on the cheek before leading him to the dance floor. It feels crowed, overly so, but everyone is keeping their distance, moving to the music drifting from the speakers._ ‘I’m going to make a fool of myself’ _Patrick starts to think as Pete carefully slides his hand to rest on his waist and takes his other hand in his. Patrick feels the scarlet stain his cheeks as he mimics Pete’s position, their bodies close to each other._

_“Relax,” he hears Pete whisper in his ear, kissing his temple before guiding them in a slow sway. “You’re doing it right, babe. Just trust me, okay, I’ve got you...” Patrick’s flush intensifies on the pet name, he’s still not used to anyone using such an endearing term, much less wanting anything remotely romantic with him like Pete does…_

_He turns to kiss Pete’s cheek with such tender, saccharine sweetness, he feels Pete smile against him and tighten his arm around his waist as move. “I trust you...” And there’s something in those words that doesn’t exactly reference their dance, it feels like something more and it slips without the singer even realizing it._

_But it’s the truth._

_He trusts Pete, more so than he trusts himself, and even Patrick admits that just thinking about it is fucking terrifyi-_

_“When we get married, we should have an outdoor wedding, we should dance under the stars so they can see how bright we shine,” says Pete absentmindedly, grinning like a doofus and breaking Patrick out of his train of thought. The strawberry blonde boy laughs and shakes his head, rolling his eyes in the process._

_“You can’t be serious…”_

_Pete chuckles right alongside him. “Totally serious, I mean, something small, intimate, we’ll have an outdoor wedding or reception thingy, we’ll light up with place with paper lanterns and we’ll be shining so bright, the stars will be jealous of us Trick…just think about it…”_

_“Counting your chickens before they hatch, don’t you think?” he smiles as Pete twirls him during the song._

_“Nope! One day, Trick, you’ll see. I’ll put a ring on your finger, if you’ll let me,” he says with a typical Wentzian grin._

_“We’ll see about that…”_

_The song changes to another slow love song, and more people have joined them on the dance floor. As they move, there’s something about the song that strikes the both of them, makes things more…intimate. Not a word is spoken between them as they move, surrounded by nothing and no one but themselves for a moment._

_While they sway, Pete brings their joined hands to his mouth to kiss pale knuckles before placing Patrick’s hand to his chest, right over his heart, the warmth of his skin radiating though his button up shirt, eyes never leaving the younger boy’s gaze. Pete’s eyes look different in the dim lantern lighting, but they’re still warm and kind, and everything Patrick knows them to be, but they’re different, and Patrick can’t explain it, but he getting lost in them as they dance. At one point they’re leaning their foreheads against each other and drowning out the world until it was just them and the slow beat of the music. Pete then leans in to slide his lips over Patrick’s in a slow, tender kiss, and Patrick melts completely into the other boy. As they pull apart, they both exchange whispers of ‘I love you’ against kissed lips for only each other to hear. It’s like, for just a second, the world stops, and there’s nothing but each other…_

_And Patrick wonders if this is what Joe and Marie were feeling just moments ago…_

He snaps out of his reverie as the noise from his headphones fades out, leaving him in nothing but silence in the small make-shift recording studio. Not that it could be called that, it was more like an extra bed-room, with mics, desktop and home mixing gear all on two simple work desks pushed together, along with various instruments and a comfy sofa . It was private, homey, and it got the job done; it was all he really needed.

Patrick eases off his headphones with a sigh, pushing his glasses out of the way as the heels of his hands press into his eyes, his strawberry blonde hair mussed from sleep, sans fedora. He’s been trying to work on a new idea, a new melody, a new song…something to keep his mind busy, to keep him from crawling into his bed and letting the dark thoughts in his mind run amuck in his brain. He can’t let that happen, he can’t-

His attention is drawn to a light coming from the corner of his eye. From the far side of the room, he sees his old phone (the same phone that bore the brunt of his anger and rage and despair _that_ night…he still has no idea how it survived it’s flight across the room into a wall…he really should invest into another Otterbox case for his new one) sits on a shelf, untouched along with a familiar silver band with onyx- his engagement ring. He can vaguely make out the picture of Pete lighted up on the screen along with “Pete” scrolled along the top, the vibration completely off, no sound coming from the device, just the light.

His heart clenches. He doesn’t dare pick it up or answer it, and through be told, he has no idea why he even has it _on_ in the first place, but…but he can’t bear to turn it off. It’s stupid, and ridiculous, he’ll be the first to admit, but he just can’t.

When the phone goes dark, he lets out another heavy sigh, righting his glasses on his nose and stands, his bare feet padding his way out of his home studio. In the living room, the TV is on and hears Brendon’s singing drifting from the kitchen, not really paying any mind to the show that is currently on but finding cooking lunch for him and Patrick more entertaining.

The singer smiles at his best friend and reaches over to grab the remote when a voice comes over the TV. “Pete Wentz eff-ed up! He needs to accept it!” Blue-hazel eyes snapped up from where he was reaching to the screen. It appeared to be a round table discussion on E!News with about five individuals, three females, two he recognizes as Kelly and Giuliana, and two males seated, a picture of Pete and himself in the background, both of them in tuxes and smiling. Patrick wants to say that the red-carpet shot happened to be at some galas Pete and he attended before tour started.

He wants to shut off the television as fast as he can, to block out any image of Pete that he can. But he finds himself unable to follow through, but instead becomes fixated on the conversation taken place…about him.

“You gotta admit though, both parties have been quiet since word of Pete’s cheating has come out. Who knows, maybe they’re trying to work things out,” reasons one of the guys before Kelly jumps into the conversation.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. My gut is telling me that Pete royally messed up, especially now that there’s rumors coming out that he may have cheated more than once, if I were Patrick, I wouldn’t take him back.”

Giuliana then adds to the conversation. “You know, I gotta say that all this just kills me, because Pete and Patrick are the perfect couple and they’re absolutely adorable together, but I have to agree with Kelly on this one, while neither one of them as said a word, I think there’s going to be wedding bells.”

The other guy chimes in as well. “What doesn’t help is all these people coming out of the woodwork saying that they slept with Wentz while Patrick was away on his tour or were eye-witnesses to his behavior. It’s sad, it really it, but there are some folks that Patrick should take him back-”

“Nope! I don’t think so,” states Kelly. “Patrick, sweetheart, don’t do it! He doesn’t deserve it, and Patrick doesn’t deserve it either! I am, have you met Patrick Stump? The man is such a sweetheart and is so kind, and yes, I know Pete Wentz also, and he’s a kindhearted guy also, but no one deserves to get cheated on; engagement or not, Pete Wentz messed up in the most fucked up way, he cheated on his fiancé! That unacceptable!”

The first man speaks once more. “But here’s the thing, personally, I think they both still really care about each other! Pete keeps tells the paparazzi that he, and I quote, ‘Will always love Patrick, no matter happens’ end quote. I mean, the guy is so in loved, and he looks genuinely upset over the whole situation, and while he hasn’t come out and admitted it, he looks like’s genuinely heartbroken about the whole situation.”

Giuliana nodded in agreement. “Okay, guys, we’re just about up on time, so final comments on the Wentz/Stump cheating scandal?”

The first guy spoke up first followed by the other guy. “Truthfully, I’m still hoping they can pull through, but if the rumors are true, I fear they might be over.”

“Agreed!”

Kelly then added. “Patrick deserves better, I say it’s off, and as much I love Pete and Patrick, he royally messed up.”

“I think we all can agree that this is such a big mess,” Giuliana stated to her panel, “But that being said, I applaud them for how they’ve been handling this, especially Patrick. If the rumors are true, Patrick needs to be strong and we wish him nothing but the best, especially on his very successful tour and album. Personally, I’m very curious to see how this time in his life will reflect his music…Let us know what you think of the Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump Cheating Scandal on Twitter using the hashtag-”

The television is turned off and Patrick turned to see Brendon standing beside him, his clothes powdered slightly in flour, looking downcast and even a little bit guilty. “I’m so sorry Patrick, I was watching the Kardashians before I started making lunch…I didn’t even think about the news…I lost track of time…”

Patrick smiles slightly at him. “Don’t worry Bren, it wasn’t as ….I guess, bad, as I thought it would be.” And Patrick wasn’t lying. While, yes, it did suck that her personal life was now a main segment on E!News, but the fact that Pete was brought up didn’t seem to bother him…at least he didn’t think so, but he could help but feel a slight hollowness in his chest at the thought of the Arma bassist…

“Are you sure? I mean….you okay?” asked Brendon, placing a hand on Patrick’s shoulders.

Truthfully. Patrick still didn’t feel okay, but he felt that be could, maybe, manage. He didn’t want to go into a complete breakdown at Pete’s name, but the hollow numbness was still there, and it gave him a slight cold ache that seemed to fill his chest, but something told him that it would probably never go away…

“Yeah, I’m fine Brendon…I just…I think…I think I need to make a phone call.” He smiles sadly over at Brendon, who slowly nods and wraps his arms around the strawberry blonde singer.

“No matter what you do, me, Hayley, and Joe won’t think any less of you…we love you man.” Patrick nods into Brendon’s shoulder, a familiar pressure in his eyes appearing once more as he pulls away. “Just to let you know,” Brendon starts, “I made chicken cordon bleu for lunch and a better than sex cake for later, but I’m sure Hayley and Spencer wouldn’t mind if we just had a little taste before they get here…”

“Yeah, that sounds good…I’ll be in the studio room if you need me…”

Patrick made his way back, the small smile that he could muster for Brendon fell from his lips as he turned into the hallway leading to his small studio, an ache in his chest making his body feel cold. The thought about the call he was about to make, and how he wasn’t sure about making it until now.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s thought about this…he’s thought about this more than he should have; fighting with himself if this was the best decision but after the new set of rumors, he was more than sure even though he knew it would hurt...

As Patrick closed the door to his studio, his heart felt even heavier, even as it raced. With careful steps, his eyes burning with unshed tears, he makes is way over to the shelf on the far side of the room, hesitantly reaching for his phone.

When he taps on the screen, he sees 67 missed phone calls, 75 unopened texts, and 23 unheard voicemails…all from Pete…his heart feels like a lead weight, like it’s racing a mile a minute as it tries to reach the bottom….he feels like he’s drowning….

He can’t do this anymore….he can’t…

Patrick unlocks his phone and taps on his contacts, finding the number he was searching for and bring the device up to his ear as his catches the gleam of his engagement band. With shaky, unsure fingers, he picks it up from its’ place on the shelf. As the line rings in his ear, he takes a seat in his chair.

He sits and inspects the ring as someone on the other line answered, Patrick’s heart racing, yet sinking like a rock in the cold, unforgiving ocean of his chest. Patrick doesn’t see any other choice. He feels the tears slide down his cheek as he speaks to the person on the other line as he tries not to let his voice crack as the cold settles over him, words falling from his lips and tears trekked down his cheek…

“Hi there, Jenna? It’s Patrick…I’m calling because I want to see if we could get the deposit reimbursed on the outdoor venue rental…there’s not going to be a wedding after all….”

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are tissues, and I'm sorry this chapter is as well written as the others, but I had a bit of a writer's block with this one. And just to give my readers a heads up; it's going to get worse after this chapter...maybe for a little bit...
> 
> I haven't given up on this work, not by a long shot, and there's still a handful more chapters to go. I've been busy with work and haven't had much time to concentrate on my writing, but that's okay, all my works are still on going and I have a few more in the works that need to be completed. That being said, if you have an suggestions, questions, or concerns, feel free to leave them in the comments or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments, feedback, and kudos are greatly appreciated =) Thanks for reading!


	6. Beauty in the Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all....I'm sorry. Second of all, I'm really sorry...
> 
> A little side note to this chapter: This is actually the very first thing I wrote in regards to this story, this is kinda what inspired 'In the Breaking' which turned into a big tear jerker of a story.
> 
> That being said, you might need tissues for this one.
> 
> All Mistakes are mine

_Truth be told, Pete didn't want to be there, but he really didn't have much of a choice. Sinful bodies and liquor flowing freeing, and while he was usually one to mix in the crowd, indulging in a the tempting lipstick smiles of woman and dangerous smirks of scene boys with skinny thighs and razor sharp hips, but this time, he sit out. His lips touch the cool glass of his burning whiskey as he simply watches from a corner, a spectator to the crowd that he doesn't feel a part of, simply acts the part with too tight jeans, flat ironed hair and eyes artfully smudged with black liner._

_He's an outsider, faking it until he makes it, and he did. He's the sex God of the scene world, bright smile full of promise, lyrics of love, hate , heartbreak and despair, lost innocence in the sheets, bruise on thighs and sweet poison kisses. He’s medicated, volatile and unstable, his heartbreaks fueling his rage and his words. He’s the one the crowd screams for, when he thrust his hips against his bass, touches himself on stage, girls throwing themselves at his feet even at the smallest of grins, its intoxicating, it’s drowning, and it’s not him, but what they want to see. And he gives it to them._

_But he doesn’t feel like acting tonight, like the world his is to conquer and destroy. No, not tonight._

_Forgotten were his tiny blue pills that filled his veins with sunshine, he had burning alcohol do the trick for him tonight, but he wasn't feeling it. No amount of drugs, drinks, sex or written lyrics could make due, could make this party of faceless people and moving bodies more bearable; but instead, he’s standing in his corner, burning liquor in his cup and looking for a way out._

_He sighs as be contemplates ditching the party to go wallow in his own self pity and let the demented voices in his head lull him into another Ativan induced sleep, being cautious of not taking too many like the last time, even though he wasn’t sure if the last time was intentional or not… Pete shakes the thought, not wanting to dwell on that media shit storm again._

_When he finally makes his descion to leave, making his way to an exit, he catches Joe, fro bouncing in every which way, bright blue eyes wide and puipls slightly blown, probably from a couple of hits from a joint to calm his nerves around this many people, come towards him, a grin on his face._

_“Wentz! Where you goin’ man?”_

_“Home, I’m not feeling it tonight…”_

_The younger boy fixes him a worried look before starting. “Hey, um, before you leave, I wanna introduce you to the newbie on the label, he’s a pretty cool dude.”_

_Pete wants to say ‘fuck it’ to Joe and just head home and crawl out of his skin, but he can’t resist the kid with too big blue eyes and a too big heart to match. Joe was more like a little brother to him than his bandmate in Arma, hell, he’d even going to be helping him find some way to propose to his girl, Marie sometime after their new record drops in six months._

_He given in with a sigh, shrugging as he tells Joe “Sure, why not, let’s see who the fresh meat is.”_

_As they make their way to the other side of the crowded room, bodies part the crowd for them like the Red Sea, he laughs at the image; thinking himself as some twisted version of Moses, but quick forgoes continuing on the train of mind; he just wants to meet this kid and get out of here, to be rocked to sleep by the feel of Ativan rushing through his system, starting to think of how many little pills it would take to lull the noises in his head. Five?...Maybe six? More than eight proved to be nearly deadly the last time…_

_And then, he swears his heart stopped beating for a moment as he saw him._

_He doesn’t look completely out of place, but he doesn’t exactly belong. He’s only a tad bit shorter than himself, and nearly the complete opposite. Where Pete is tan skin and tattoos along his arms, dark hair and brown eyes, the kid before him is all pale skin without a single mark, strawberry blond hair and blue eyes with hazel peeking around his pupil. For Pete’s lean frame and girl tight jeans, he’s got some baby fat that clings to him in the right areas; his stomach and his hips, loose jeans can’t hide hips, but he’s attempting to hide in a loose shirt and a trucker hat pulled over his eyes, bottled water in his hands._

_He’s shy looking, young, and innocent in a scene known for sin and lust, and corruption; he’s an angel in hell, a light shining at the end of the tunnel. He’s the beginning and the end, and Pete just knows it, his stomach and his heart must know it to because of the fluttering in his gut and the beating in his heart as he looks into beautiful eyes._

_He’s lost in this, and Pete thinks, for once, this might be a good thing.._

_“Yo! Patrick, this is Pete, our singer and bassist for Arma! Pete, his is Patrick, he just got signed to the label not too long ago.”_

_The kid, Patrick, is blushing slightly, cheeks stained even under the shadow of his trucker hat as he shoots him a shy smile, reaching out his hand. “Patrick. It’s nice to meet you.”_

_On instinct, he reaches for it in return, feeling the warmth of his palm against his as the way his eyes shine even in the crowded room. He swears he says something back, but he doesn’t hear himself, because the room is slowing down and the noise is fading out, and all he can focus on is this angel in front of him that wants to know, that makes his heart sing in ways it never did before with a smile, a glance._

_Everything fades so that it’s just the two of them in the room, nothing else in important, and nothing else exist._

_The world just…  
_

Stops.

His breathe catches in his throat at he looks down at his phone.

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks, 67 failed phone calls, 75 un-replied texts, and 23 unanswered voicemails, that this until about an hour ago, when Pete was at the studio, trying to practice some part for Arma’s new album when  he got a text.

_‘I’m going to stop by and pick up my things….Just to let you know…’_

And just like that he is out and racing to his car, speeding on his home, hoping he wasn’t too late. By the time he fights with traffic, he makes it to his house, breathing out a sigh as he catches Patrick’s car in the driveway, the backseat already filled with three large moving boxes. Pete’s heart sinks to the deepest pits of his stomach.

He’s quiet when he enters his house, it hasn’t exactly been a _home_ since Patrick ran out, or even before when he was on tour. Patrick was always home for him, always brought that welcoming warmth, that place of belonging that no one else had ever been able to ignite in him…and he fucking threw it all away.

As his footsteps echo in the foyer, he followed the distinct sounds of things being packed in the kitchen. And when he approaches, he’s greeted with the sight of Patrick’s back, he watched as his shoulders sagged as another record was placed in the moving box that was settled on the chair beside him. Pete’s heart breaks at the way Patrick simply placed his elbows against the smooth counter top of the kitchen’s island and let his face fall into his hands.

“Patrick?” he called out timidly, nervously. Hell this was their first conversation in three weeks, like an actually conversation. The last time they really talked face to face was before Patrick went on his 12 weeks straight tour, all to promote his album which was doing incredibly well, way more than people expected.

He watched as the singer’s shoulders tensed at his name, and how he carefully lifted his head from his hands, careful to not to make it evident that he was wiping away his tears, but Pete knew…there was no hiding the shakes that racked his body, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m just finishing up,” he said softly, straightening his back and returning to pack his records and other items away. “You didn’t have to leave work, I just came to get my stuff.”

“I wanted to…I-“ he cut himself off as he stood like stone in the doorway, not knowing how to approach. “I wanted to see you, to talk-.”

“There isn’t anything to talk about it,” Patrick cut him off softly.

“Yes there is, ‘Trick, we have a shit load to talk about and I’m not about to let you leave without first hearing me out! Please!!” he pleaded. “I lov-”

“Don’t.” Patrick gritted out icily, his hands gripping the edges of the counter with a white-knuckled grip. “Don’t you dare-”

“I love you Patrick.”

Something in Patrick snapped. It snapped violently and into a thousand pieces, but it only unleashed his rage. _“Then why? Why did you have to go a fuck somebody else if you **love** me?”_

Pete had to take a step back as Patrick whirled around to face him, angry, hurt tears falling from hazel blue eyes. Pete had put that look there, he was the reason behind his crystalline tears. “I just want to know why,” asked Patrick, the words slipping from clenched teeth. “Is it because I’m not here?  Was it because I’ve been on the road for the last couple of months that I couldn’t give you the occasional fuck you needed?” His speech becomes faster and his body trembles like a fragile leave in a hurricane as he continues “I’m not good-looking enough? Not skinny enough?” More tears falling and Pete catches a glimpse of his Patrick’s dangerous, self-hated train of thought.

Pete shakes his head as he reaches out for the singer, only of him to flinch away. “Patrick…”

“No Pete! Tell me what did I do _wrong_!,” his word coming out as a desperate plead from his lips as his hands shook at his side, trying so incredibly hard not to completely break down…he had done enough of that more times than he was willing to admit over the last few weeks, but Patrick feels himself unraveling, and he can’t stop it “Tell what I did that made you want to sleep with someone else in the same bed you proposed to me on,” Patrick’s nearly yelling, glassy eyes squeezed shut as he brings his arms around his sides, in some physically attempt to _hold himself together,_ and he makes Pete’s heart _ache,_ so much that words and lines are flowing through his head about beauty in the breaking and broken hearts…”Why did you have to do it? Why did you lie to me, tell me that I was the ‘only one’ and catch you like this, just when you said that as soon as I got back from tour, we would-” _Get married_ are the words that he chokes on, his eyes closing shut as he brings the heels of his hands to press firmly against his eyes, trying to will away the tears.

Pete finally moves from his spot and reaches out to pull the singer into a hug, to comfort him in some sort of way, to somehow make amends for the shit storm he caused. “Patrick, no, please just hear me out. You’re all I ever wanted, everything I ever needed-” and before he could bring the strawberry blond into an embrace, Patrick flinched out of his grasp, moving away, his arms still wrapped around himself, protectively, and Pete was familiar with that stance. Patrick was listening to the thoughts in his head, the sugar sweet poison voices that Pete swore he would kiss and soothe away.

“Then why did you do it?” said Patrick in a small voice, tears caressing his cheek when it should be his fingertips, his hand, his lips against soft skin.

Pete sighed brokenly as he leaned against the opposite counter top, facing Patrick as bass callous hands ran scrubbed down his face, stopping briefly over his mouth as he thought ‘ _Why the hell did I do it?’_. He had everything he could have ever hoped for and more, playing music for a living, a nice house, no financial worries, but the only thing that truly mattered was the  beautiful soul by his side for the last five years with a voice as golden as his heart, who gave him so much than Pete could ever repay in a lifetime…and he threw it all away, he had put all of that at on the line, and now it was falling through his fingers, like the sand in the hourglass.

“I don’t know,” he whispered sadly, voice ridden with guilt. Everything felt cold, and he was beginning to wonder if this is what a self-inflicted broken heart felt like. “I don’t know, and I’m so sorry, Patrick...I’m so sorry…”

“How many times?” and Pete’s mind froze as he looked at Patrick, eyes still diverted from his own but the tears still falling silently, his lips, those lips that Pete loved so much, that gave him light even in his darkest of days, formed a hard dreadful line.

“Patrick…”

“How many times Pete,” he asked again, softly. “How many times did you sleep when someone else while I was on tour?”

“Four,” he confessed before he realized it, and the hurt in Patrick’s eyes intensified, watching as the squeezed shut, catching the way his hands painfully gripped at his sides. “I was drunk and manic, I know that’s no excuse,” Pete pleaded, his voice on the edge of desperate and his words cracking with guilt. “I don’t know what came over me, but you have to believe me.” Part of him wanted to blame it on his Bipolar; mania and alcohol weren’t exactly the best combinations but it still…he should have called Patrick, he should have told him he was manic and fucking horny as hell, instead he threw his digression out the window and took Mark up on his offers (and he knew he shouldn’t have) to go out bar hopping after those late night meetings. He should have told Mark to keep him away from the liquor, from the beer, away from the dancing bodies, Pete should have told those strangers with sinful smiles and teasing touches that he was engaged, that he had the most loving and beautiful man in the world as his partner, his lover, but he never did. Pete wasn’t stupid, he _knew_ his lack of control was at fault, and really, he had no one to blame but himself….Patrick didn’t do anything wrong; it was _him_.

“I’m seeing my therapist, they’re going to change up my medication, give me a mood stabilizer for when I’m manic-”

“I’m sorry.” And Pete’s mind just went blank as the heard the whisper fall from the singer’s lips. He looked at Patrick questioningly, curious and confused as his fiancé spoke again, voice soft and losing off of the fire it had when this whole thing first started. “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you, but…but you…I can’t just stand here and pretend like it’s alright, that it was all because of a manic episode…I trusted you to call me, I know how you get when your manic.”

“I promise I’ll get better, I’ll call my therapist tomorrow, I promise, just please don’t-” _Please don’t leave me_ , he thinks, on the verge of tears. There’s a silence that follows, a deafening silence that shakes Pete to his very core as he watches the tears fall from Patrick’s eyes, running along the curve of his cheeks. God, he wants to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness, he wants to wrap his arms around the singers and kiss the tears away, chant apologies into his pale neck and hold onto him for dear life.

All he wants is to turn back the clock, to stop himself, but he realized that it’s too late. It’s too late when Patrick takes a step forward, beautiful colored eyes red and filled with tears, and places his hand on the island countertop between them. It’s too late when his hand falls away and all that’s left is the gleaming silver ring, a thin line of onyx embedded around it and the engraved lyric of their first song on the inside, a line Pete knew by heart because whenever he would always mouth the words along while looking at Patrick. That ring had never left Patrick’s finger for longer than necessary, ever since he placed it on Patrick’s finger seven months ago.

It was a promise, a commitment, that as soon as this tour was done, Pete would replace sterling silver and onyx with white gold, in front of their family and friends. It was his wildest dreams and endless love for Patrick, and now, it was off of Patrick’s delicate finger, and sitting on the counter top. He felt the wind rush out of his lungs and heart plummet to the ground.

“I...I can’t pretend that everything’s okay…you _know_ what you should have done, you’ve done it in the past…Your manic episodes are no excuse, _you_ told me that yourself…”

All Pete can do is stare at the on the counter as Patrick continues to speak, his own tears threatening to fall from his eyes at the gleam of silver on the dark countertop.

“I called Jenna,” Patrick nearly whispers, “I managed to get her to refund you back the deposit for the venue…she says she’ll wire it back and you should have it all in your account by tomorrow…”

Pete looks up at the singer, wide-eyed and heartbroken…he…he’s calling off the wedding…Pete’s dream of exchanging vows in front of their family and closest friends, of slipping a white gold ring on his finger, dancing with him under the stars, like he _promised_ him that night at Joe and Marie’s wedding

_It’s fucking shattered at their feet…and he’s the reason because of it_ …

He’s froze, every part of his body, his brain, is _screaming_ to tell Patrick _no_ that they can _still_ make it work, that he could stop Patrick from stepping out of this kitchen, of his house, of his _life_ because of his stupid mistake, but he can’t get his body to move, even as Patrick picks up the box he was packing and carries it past him, the singer stopping just short of the doorway, not looking back. “I’m sorry Pete…goodbye…” Patrick whispers in a room that makes it seem like he was shouting from the roof top, the last word leaving in a question at Pete can practically _hear_ the tears and the heartbreak in his voice.

His footsteps echo through the house that is no longer his home _(home is always with Patrick…always)_ and then quiet closing of the door, no slamming, no yelling, no threats or name calling, just a gentle click of the door closing back into place was louder and more painful than anything he had even experienced.

As Patrick walks out the door, opening his car door and placing the final box in the back of the car. He left his spare house key on the side table by the door, and as he slid into the driver side, key in the ignition, he gives one last look at the house, what was soon to be _theirs_. _‘Not any more…you were nothing but a pretty toy to him…you always were…he never loved you’_ a voice rang in his head as the tears flowed from his eyes. He felt himself lean forward until his forehead rested against the steering wheel, sobs wracking his body like they hadn’t in weeks. He wants to run back in, kiss Pete senseless, but the voice in his head is laughing at him, mocking him. _‘Run back in and he’ll use you all over again...he doesn’t love you, he never did…’_ Patrick doesn’t think twice as he backs out of the drive way.

There’s no screaming, no sobbing, not yet anyways as Pete numbly slides down onto the title floor of the kitchen, his chest cold and empty, it fucking _hurts_ to even _breathe_. The world feels like its moving faster than it did before, and it’s leaving Pete surrounded by shattered futures and burned dreams, the light snuffed out by dark clouds and he’s left to be soaked by the rain.

But he’s the one with the bat in his hand, he shattered his own future; he’s the one with the matches in his pocket and gasoline on his skin from burning bridges and dreams, he’s the broken soul standing in the rain from his own stupidity.

The world is moving forward without him, but Pete…his world simply…

.

Stopped.  
.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah... And I'm posting this on Valentine's day, go fucking figure... If you need some cheering up, my Coffeeshop AU series was updated with the second chapter of 'Open Mic and Caffeine Nights' which has a much fluffier ending.
> 
> This story is my baby and I'm not giving up on this! However, updates are taking forever due to work stress and time for the most part, but i'm always working on something =)
> 
> Now, here's the fun part. I have some ideas where I want this to go, but I would like to hear from you all what you hope to see in the upcoming chapters, so if you have any ideas or suggestions, please feel free to leave them in the comments or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/).
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated and thank you for always sticking by me, it really does mean the world =)
> 
> Thanks for reading! xoxo


	7. It's not your name on my lips (but it rings in my minds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back...FINALLY!!!
> 
> So to celebrate, here's some more angst.
> 
> As always, my fics are un-beta'd, thus all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy!

Blinding lights, shuttering clicks, and technicolor dots

Flash, Flash, Flash…

“Patrick! This way,” “Patrick!” “Mr. Stump, over there!”

The singer doesn’t respond, but simply looks straight ahead into the pit of flashing cameras, as his name is being called out by faceless people behind thousand dollar cameras, his vision being clouded and blinded by red and white dots, as he attempts to face his best faux smile.

Another minute before he feels a hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from the vultures and down the red carpet. The singer turns and expects to see _whiskey brown eyes, and a charming smile, his hand guiding down to the small of his back as they walked comfortably down the red carpet._

_“Is you’re vision still intact?” The bassist would ask, the comfortable warmth of his body by his own._

_“I hope so, but Holy smokes, I’m gonna be seeing dots for the entire award show…,” he would giggle, leaning into the solid feel of Pete’s body._

_“It’ll last only a few minutes…you looking fucking gorgeous tonight, though…I love you…”_

But there’s no whiskey eyes, no dark hair, or stupidly big smile. There’s no Pete, just his manager leading him by the shoulder away from the paparazzi.

“Patrick? Are you okay?” he asks, looking somewhat worried. Patrick wants to lie, want to break down and say _‘No, I’m not okay, it’s been four months since I called off the wedding, and I feels so fucking empty because my former fiancé cheated on me while I was away on tour…’_

“Yeah, just tired…do I have to do any interviews, tonight?” he’s hoping he doesn’t. He just wants to get this over with, stay for his categories, and then leave. He doesn’t want to see the other nominees, he didn’t want to even come, but he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Just one with E!, and we can head inside. I’m going to see if I can get you out early…you keep eyeing the exit…”

“I’d appreciate it, I really would…” He’s tired, and he hasn’t slept well since the last time he spoke to Pete; Patrick’s been writing more, trying to write or help produce some projects with some friends, only because when he does sleep, he always dreams of Pete, or dreams about finding him in bed with someone else. It’s gotten to the point that his mom and several of his friend recommending seeing a doctor for sleep aids. He’s trying them tonight and praying to whatever God there was that he could have a dreamless night for once.

But for now, he’ll have to endure the never ending clattery of his name and blinding camera flashes while giving the word a spurious smile that’s as hollow as he feels on the inside, missing the familiar warmth that should be beside him.

**.....**

Pete can’t bring himself to go to the fucking award show, instead, his bandmates go for him, even though they’re pretty confident they’re not going to win their category. Instead, he isolate himself in his stud, the same room he trashed in a drunken rage months ago, slumped over his desk, tearing out a page from his notebook with a growl, crushing the lined paper in his palms, putting out any semblance of lyrics he’s been trying to write for the last three days. He’s the fuck master of writing broken hearted lyrics and verses of self-hatred and misery… _but he can’t fucking write_.

“God fucking damnit…” he hisses, leaning heavily into his chair, squeezing his eyes shut as he tugs at his hair, hoping that something will pop into his head.

But nothing was ever the same, something felt right now.

He sighs heavily as he sits up, his eyes catching the gleam of silver and onyx sitting innocently by a familiar picture of Patrick, caught in mid laugh, eyes crinkled but bright, his fedora knocked off head. It was always ( _will always_ , he corrected) be his favorite picture of the strawberry blond singer.

Even if the ring that’s supposed to be on his finger sits idly by the picture frame on his work desk, seeming duller without being on Patrick’s finger; it doesn’t hold the same gleam like it used to, causing a familiar stab of pain to course through Pete’s chest.

His fingertips graze the glass of the frame, thoughtfully, wistfully thinking that _maybe…just maybe…_ but instead he gently brings the framed photo of his beautiful fiancé ( _ex fiancé_ the voice in his mind malevolently corrects.) face down before he stands from his makeshift prison.

He needs to get out, and think, and get his mind in order to write.

Pete’s been ignoring the buzzing under his skin for sometime now, and the only thing he could think about is _getting out_ , away from the heartbreak, from the memories that still line the walls of the house that should have been theirs, not just solely Pete’s. Writing usually helps his impulsive when the familiar buzz of mania itches under his skin but that seems futile.

 _‘Patrick knew how to help you during your manic episodes, that was until you ran him off because you couldn’t keep you’re cock in your pants…’_ his mind taunts. And Pete can’t find it in him to fight back, instead, finds his shoes and his bomber jacket without a second thought and makes his way out the door.

If the world thinks of him as a fuck-up because of his infidelity (not that he could blame him, if he could tattoo it on his forehead to please the critics, he would in a heartbeat) then he’ll do just that.

He’ll be the fuck-up.

**.....**

He doesn’t know how, but he make it through the award show, graciously thanking his family, friends, and fans for their constant love and support when he wins his three nominations, all of which were in major categories for the night.

But the trophies mean nothing, just flimsy metal spray painted silver and gold, as the familiar burn of alcohol runs past his throat, liquor sour and tart on his tongue.

Patrick’s never been much of a drinker, sure the occasional glass of whiskey, neat when out being social with friends, or even a bottle of beer or two, but that was all. He’s never been into drinking, never been into the haze of freedom that comes with too much alcohol in his system or the giddy high he gets from too many shots of vodka. Patrick never liked the feeling of losing control, only willing to settle for the ever so slight buzz that came with three glasses of strong whiskey on an empty stomach.

But this was different.

The room was spinning, and honestly, a drink was shoved into his hand the moment he entered the crowded after-party, and he just drank. He didn’t know what compelled him, but he made it a game; one drink for every time someone told him they were _‘sorry about what happened_ ’ or that he ‘ _didn’t deserve it’_.

He was already drunk 45 minutes after arriving, allowing himself to be pulled into the mass of swinging bodies, letting the alcohol clear his mind and make him forget about the lack of the engagement ring on his finger or hollow that seemed to settle deep in his chest.

It was freeing, thrilling, and for a moment, Patrick could forget about the world.

He was beginning to like this.

He was reaching for another drink a moment later, until someone stopped him, a familiar dark hand covered in tattoos shooing the server away while plucking the shot glass out of Patrick’s hand.

“Now, now, pretty boy, I think that’s enough for you,” the person purred playfully, his voice holding a hint of a chuckle.

Even with the world around him spinning, colors and shaping blending together into a masterpiece, Patrick whined at the ever so familiar voice and the feel of large hands on his waist, holding him steady.

“Travie?” he slurred, which earned a chuckle from the taller artist.

“Ol’ Travie McCoy to the rescue,” the darker man grinned, pulling Patrick over to some sofas. “You need to take it easy Pretty Boy, you’re a lightweight, and the last thing we want is the paps to report you getting alcohol poisonin’.”

The blonde simply giggled, leaning playfully into Travie’s side, the taller man slipping a friendly arm around his shoulder.

“M’not gonna get sick…justs forgettin…” Patrick sighed trying to reach for another drink, only to be stopped by Travie once again.

“Nah uh-huh,” the rapper chided softly, which caused Patrick to pout, his bottom lip sticking out comically, causing Travie to roll his eyes with a stupid grin. “Come on, Pretty Boy, you’re pretty wasted,” he tried to reason with the singer. “And when you get wasted, you ain’t in the best frame of mind…come to my place tonight, we’ll get some Chinese and watch so really bad comedy movies.”

Patrick thought for a moment before nodding, allowing Travie to lead him out of the booze soaked after party and into a waiting car, vaguely remembering the rapper talking to someone on the phone, Patrick’s manager.

“Yeah, man, he’s wasted….I’ll take care of him for the night… Yeah, just wanted to let you know so y’all don’t worry too much.”

“I’m fine ya know,” he said softly, when Travie got off the phone with his manager, Patrick talking to the city lights flying past his window, blurred colors of yellow, whites, blues, and reds making a water colored portrait in his alcohol hazed mind. “Im not a baby…”

“True, but we love ya. We just want to make sure you don’t go home alone tonight…” the taller shrugged nonchalantly.

Patrick stumbled into room , holding on to Travie as he lost his footing along the way, clinging on to the material of his jacket for dear life. “I gotcha, I gotcha,” soothed the rapper with a deep chuckle. “Okay…maybe I did have a little too much,” the singer slurred, leaning heavily into the taller man’s chest.

“Maybe just a little, baby boy.”

Patrick nearly purred at the age old endearment, one that Travie had given him years ago when they both were starting out in the scene, before either one of them had signed a record deal, just two young kids who wanted to make music. Years later, there’s still a bond between them, one that has withdstanded competing record labels, failed contracts, mediocre albums, and top 40 hits. They’ve collaborated more than a fair share of times, even Patrick helping produce Travie’s last single, which so happens to be going platinum very soon.

Patrick doesn’t know where he would be without Travie.

“Come on, Trick, you gotta take a seat, man,” the tattooed artist says as he leads Patrick to the sofa in the spacious suite of his hotel. Patrick does as he’s told and follows willingly, giggling slightly as he falls onto the sofa. “There ya go, nice and comfy,” he dawls out, reaching for his phone and dialing a local takeout place, while Patrick’s giggles has subsided, leaving him staring at the ceiling, minutely feeling the buzz of the alcohol fade from the edges of his vision, his happy buzz sobering up ever so slightly without the constant gulp of burning liquor fueling it.

Patrick doesn’t like the fading buzz.

“Okay, baby boy,” Travie starts, ending his call and returning to the sofa, dumping himself on the space beside Patrick’s feet, limbs sprawling out comfortably. “Should be here in 30 minutes or it’s free, got you sweet and sour tofu, Mongolian almond chicken and veggie Lo Mein.”

The blonde simply nods, before speaking. “I don’t like being sober.”

It comes out almost too casually, as if they were talking about the weather. Travie looks over at Patrick with a raised eye brow, a hand finding it’s way to the singer’s ankle. “Really now?”

Another nod. “I feel too much when I’m sober…I don’t like it,” he says after a short pause, eyes still looking up, tracing patters and constellations into the hotel ceiling with his alcohol laden brain.

“Well, hate to break it to you,” begins Travie, slinging an arm around the back of the sofa, looking over at the singer. “But bein’ drunk as a skunk ain’t too good for ya either, ‘Trick.”

“I aint even _that_ drunk,” he challenges, and Travie has to admit that he’s got a point. “But I feel good,” Patrick’s whines unintentionally, at which Travie simple chuckles, remembering quite well that Patrick can be a funny, but somewhat childish, when buzzed. “And it helps me forget about him…when I’m sober, that’s all I think about.”

“I know, but you gotta find something else to distract you from him, ya know?” the rapper offers, to which Patrick breaks eye contact with the ceiling, lifting his head up slightly to look over at the other. “How are the beats coming, ‘Trick? I know you’ve been writin’, that pretty head of yours doesn’t stop making songs.”

“Everything’s about him, I can’t help myself, Trav,” he sighs, the warmth of the alcohol fading from his body, sobering him up just the slightest as the minutes tick by. “I’m so fucking angry at him, but fuck, I still love him,” he rubs his hands over his face to grip tightly at his hair before settling back over his eyes, something that sounds like a mix between a giggle and a sob escapes him. “I can’t stop thinking about him Travie, I just keep seeing him fucking someone else in our bed, out of everything, that’s what fucking staying in my head.”

Travie lets out a sympathetic hum, his large hands moving up and down Patrick’s clad leg. “I’m sorry, Pretty Boy. Pete’s been a friend of mine for a while know, but he fucked up. I ain’t gonna sugar coat it, Trick. You, ‘ _specially you_ , don’t need to be treated like that.”

Which is true, Travie was, well, _is_ , Pete’s friend, even though they haven’t talked much since the Incident, but Travie also beat around the bush; he’ll be blunt with you if that’s what you want. And right now, Patrick’s falling from his alcohol induced high and needs something to give him answers rather than apologizes, sympathy and petty.

“What do I do Travie?”

“Distract yourself,” he answers casually. “Move on, get your life back together instead of stewin’ in your head. You’ve always done that, and I’ve always told you-“

“You’re gonna overcook,” they say at the same time, causing the both of them to chuckle slightly. Patrick sits up slightly, looking over at his longtime friend, noticing the way he practically melts into the sofa, radiating calm and cool, his tux jacket long gone and shirt un-tucked, a few of the buttons undone giving him a peak of inked design on his chest.

There are moments that Patrick forgets how attractive Travie is.

This isn’t one of those moments.

“Help me?” he asks tentatively, his voice just above a whisper, the liquor evaporating from his vision. Travie raises an eyebrow at the request, asking the singer to continue without so much of a word. “Help me, forget?”

Before Travie could speak, Patrick sat up completely and, in one smooth and single motion, straddled the other’s lap. On instinct, tattooed hands came to rest on plush hips, holding him tight, but not allowing him to move. The singer looked questioningly at Travie as he smoothed his hands down from his shoulders to his upper arms, leaning in ever so slightly.

“Travie…please?” Patrick whispered against close to his lips, dark, tattooed hands resting firmly on his hips. “Please…just once…” But Travie was known for his reserve, and kept a calm façade even as petal pink lips where inches away from his own.

“Patrick, you don’t know what you’re askin’ me, baby…”

“I want us to make out…I want you to fuck me so I can forget what it’s like to have my heart ripped out of my chest. We’ve done this before, way before I ever even met Pete….” Which was true, they had fooled around when they both were just starting out in the industry. Best friends with benefits, that’s what they were in the past, until they met their significant others.

“Foolin’ around doesn’t cure a broken heart…”

“Maybe not, but it will distract me, help me forget for a moment,” Travie knew some of what was spilling out of the blonde’s lips were from the alcohol, but he knew very well that this openness was very much the real Patrick coming through, the liquor giving him the liquid courage to voice what his head, and his heart, want to say. “I just want to remember….”

Travie’s eyes soften, as he lifts a hand up to gently cup Patrick’s cheek, who leans into the warmth of his palm, blue-green eyes fluttering shut at the rapper’s touch, his thumb sweeping under his eye, wiping away a lone tear that escaped. _Remember what it’s like to be whole again and not cheated on_ is what Travie’s mind supplies because he _knows_ Patrick, he’s known him since they were fresh faced kids.

It feels like he’s cheating, in a way, only because they haven’t done this in so long, hell, more than five years. They both came to an agreement that the ‘benefits’ part of their friendship would stay between them when one of them was in a relationship, that they would be faithful to their significant others.

Travie’s been single for over a year, and Patrick…well, Patrick called off his engagement and his relationship with Pete four months ago…

“Like old times?” Patrick asks, his voice a hushed whisper in the silent of the hotel suite.

“I’ll take care of you, baby boy. Like ol’ times.” Travie says before surging up to capture Patrick’s lips with his own, matching Patrick’s desperate kisses. “I gotcha Trick, I gotcha…” he mutters as they pull apart for air, Patrick’s hands scrambling to make due of the buttons, needing to feel Travie’s skins with his own hands.

“Thank you, Travie…thank you,” the singer breathes, feeling the darker man’s lips against his throat, the coarse hair of his beard scratching the sensitive skin there, causing whimpers to escape him.

Patrick feels a familiar warmth flood through him that he hasn’t felt in quite some time, as Travie trails down his neck, kissing his shoulder as he shrugs off his button up shirt, his own hands fumbling with Travie’s belt.

And for the briefest of moments, he wonders if this is what Pete felt when he was fooling with a nameless stranger that wasn’t him behind his back.

But Travie isn’t a nameless one night stand. Travie is his friend, one of his best friends.

And Patrick just wants to remember what it’s like to be _loved_ again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adulting is hard and time consuming , and for a while I had a major writer's block on how I wanted this chapter to go (and it took me seven months to figure it out *SIGHS*), turns out, all I needed was a little bit of Travie to move things along. (In case you couldn't tell, I love TravTrick as much as I love Peterick, it's kinda my guilty pleasure).
> 
> Thank you for your support and amazing feed back, it really helps when writing this one, because it's my baby, and I wanna make sure I see this one through to the end (still not sure how I wanna end it, but send suggestions!). As always, let me know what you think! And kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated.
> 
> If you have any suggestions or prompts feel free to leave them here or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) (aka shamless self-promoting), where I accept prompts and will post snippets up fics. I'm hoping to update my coffeeshop AU and 'Come and Save Me' before I post any more one shots, so please bare with me while I try to be an organized human being (and fail while I'm at it), but I do promise I have a Suitehearts AU nearly completed and a prompt that I just finished yesterday (AND I'M SO EEEK, ITS FLUFFY). 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, your support, and above all your patience!  
> -Xoxo


	8. Just Another Notch on the Bedpost

Pete knew this wasn’t a fucking good idea.

But he honestly, didn’t care.

There was the itch under his skin, the kind of itch he only gets when he's manic, when he feels his mind spinning out of control and he wants to burst out of his skin. It's wanting to do something, anything, but at the same time, feeling trapped in glass box, just waiting to shatter the walls around him. He needs to break free, he needs to do something to quell in furry in his head.

Before everything, Patrick would be more than willing to help Pete when he got like this, when the world was his for the taking and all he had to do was grab it. Sometimes it was rough but passionate sex which left the both of them sweaty, spent, and clinging to each other like lifelines. Other times it was impromptu drives to the middle of nowhere with the singer in the passenger seat, or walks in the park in the dead of night, or evenings losing themselves in the bass of house music at some random club. Sometimes, the only thing he could do was cling to Patrick, walls echoing back his hysterical crying because it was all too much to bear...

Patrick was always there with him, through every episode...but not now. Now he's gone, and Pete is left to his own devices. That is how he found himself in the middle of the seediest, loudest club he could find, one Patrick would never have allowed Pete to drag him into.

He’s surrounded by a sea of swaying, sweaty bodies, men and women alike casting Cheshire-like grins his way, filled with temptation, wanting. Through it all, with burning liquor coursing like wildfire through his veins and the pills he took from one of the bartenders causing his world to warp and spin, making him feel lighter than he has in months, the lights in the club painting delusions to the bass of the music he knows are only in in head…Pete’s willing to let those sinful smiles have his way with him.

The pills are magic in his veins, a long forgotten friend. He felt rash, impulsive, taking the small pills the bartender offered him without a second thought, throwing them back and washing it down with burning liquor. If Patrick were here, he would have steered Pete away from him, letting Pete get high on Patrick himself, in the way he looked sweaty and exotic underneath the flashing lights if the dance floor, beautiful smile and brilliant eyes, his body against his...But instead, a grinning smile from the crowd draws in Pete close, luring him, hypnotizing him, and the dark-haired bassist can't help but be entranced, the drugs in his system painting the body before him in dazzling shades and intoxicatingly bright hues.

He lets a stranger, a younger looking man, grind up on him, Pete’s hands on his waist, sliding up to feel the bumps of his ribs as he sloppily kisses Pete’s neck, the man tilting his head back, letting him.

As Pete closes his eyes, he realizes he can pretend, if only for a moment, that the body pressed up against his feels like Patrick—almost as if he and Patrick where in the club together, like they used to be months ago, whenever that familiar itch of the crowds, and the music, and the lights called beckoning him like a sailor to a siren’s song, just like it was tonight.

It was toxic, dangerously enthralling, breathing a life into him that he hadn’t felt in _years_. It called him, just like the drugs in the room are calling his name, just like the way the stranger’s hands slide seductively down to his hips _beg_ for him.

The younger man grinds on him, speaks into his ear, nibbling on his lobe gently. “Let’s go somewhere,” he purrs, the rich-velvet tone sending shivers down his spine. Pete grins back and nods, guiding the stranger out of the dense dance floor and into the VIP section.

The bass of the music still thrums through his body as he pulls the stranger into one of the private rooms, dimly lighted but pulsing with the DJ’s set. Before he could even lock the door, the stranger, fair skinned, blonde, and on the sickly side of skinny, pushes himself against Pete, crashing their lips together.

“Come on, baby,” the stranger moans into his ear, “I’ll give you the time of your life.”

Pete doesn’t answer, only fist his hands into blonde hair and kisses him with everything he’s got.

 _“Pete…”_ He knows his mind is playing tricks on him, thinking about the way Patrick would moan into his kisses when he would have him like this, the whimpers that always send a wave of protectiveness through his body…

_No._

That’s gone now –Patrick’s gone. And it was all _his fault_.

 _‘What you’re doing now is the reason he’s gone_.’ A familiar voice taunted in his skull, feeling more tangible than ever, like shadows creeping up around his body, up his arms, suffocating him.

His shirt’s gone, and there’s are hands on the buckle of his jeans, and lips on his necklace of thorns…and the body under his fingertips…It’s not _right_.

Hips are too narrow, body to thin and, the hair isn’t even the same color blonde, not even close to the honey brown he loved so much…

It’s all _wrong_. It doesn’t feel _right._

“How long hasn’t it been, baby? I’ll be so good for you…”

And Pete hasn’t gotten laid since…since…

_The faint sound of a sob amongst the soft moans filling the room. His stomach dropping as ice runs through his veins, removing himself from his one-night stand, who looked just as scared and shocked at the singer in the doorway._

_“Patrick…”_

_Pete catching his expression: shock, confusion, disgust, and fury mixed with unshed tears glazed over blue-green hazel eyes before he quickly turned, making his way down the stairs in a blind haste._

_“Patrick! Please!”_

Nimble fingers are undoing his belt, and even in his pill-hazed mind it feels wrong. He reaches out, fumbling, until-

“No.”

Surprised brown eyes, not blue with a ring of hazel, widen with surprise as Pete wraps a firm hand around the other’s wrist. He’s not going to do this…he’s not…

The shock that came over the stranger’s face melted  back into a seductive pout, crowding in closer to Pete, trying to melt into him like a second skin. “Oh, come on, let loose, have some fun-“

“I said _no_ ,” Pete shoves away, exasperated, the room still spinning like a record on the turntable, but the needle always skipping on one place, _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick_ , ringing in his head.

“It’s not like you’re _engaged_ anymore,” the stranger grins, almost in a sinister way, mocking him, berating him, the words a knife in his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “I heard you lost him because he caught you with your dick in someone else…It’s his fault he was gone for as long as he was,” the man purred, fingers gliding along his chest, the velvet of his voice hiding the thorns just beneath the surface, digging in, adding salt into the wounds he hadn’t even dared to lick yet. “He should have taken care of what he had…I can give you what he didn’t…”

“ _Get the hell away from me_ ,” He roared, his heart thundering in his ears, eyes seeing red. How _dare_ he talk about Patrick like that…It wasn’t his fault. It never was _Patrick’s_ fault…

He bends to grab his shirt, tugging it on as he walks out the door, ignoring his name being called by the nameless siren he had abandoned.

Pete needed to get out of there, need to leave, to clear his head, to do something right…

He escapes through the back door into an empty alley way and pukes, disgusted with the taste of another man on his tongue, disgusted at himself for giving into the touches, the words, the pills…

They made him forget, only for a moment, but…but it was all he needed to satisfy that itch under his skin, that helped him shatter his glass box, making everything in the world seem right for a split second... they also made him realize how wrong it all was, and all the pain in Patrick’s eyes crashed over him in an instant. Pain _he_ put there…

When he finished emptying the contents of his stomach, he leaned heavily against the rough brick wall, fishing for his phone in his pocket, surprised when he finds three small tablets still lingering in his pocket, a gift from the bartender. He pulls them out along with his phone, three yellow pills, sunshine in his pocket, happiness in a single swallow.

He hadn’t been on anything but his medications since he started dating Patrick. He got clean for Patrick, he recalled the endless nights of withdrawal-filled fights, of sitting fully clothed in the tub, rocking back and forth, sobbing into his knees as the pain became too much to bear…

And Patrick…

Patrick was there through all of that. Patrick was the one that stayed up with him though those endless, paranoid nights, Patrick was the one that held him while he sobbed in the tub, begged to die, the pain too much for him to stand, but the singer only held him tighter, kissing his head, singing him through the worst of it. “ _It’s okay. I’m here, Pete. I love you so much. You’re so brave, baby…so brave.”_

His attention falls back to his palm, the pills rest in his hand…He’s been clean for five years…until tonight. Tonight was a slip up, like everything else, he’s be doing as of late.

But he wanted to change that.

He needed to.

Single-handedly, he unlocks his phone and calls one of the guys for a ride. Chris yells at him over the line, pissed that he ditched the award show. Pete sighs, shoulders slump as the buzz slowly begins to recede from his mind. “I’m sorry, it’s been tough, y’know…Look, I just…can you tell the boss to send someone to come and get me?” he asks.

“ _Yeah, just don’t do anything stupid, please, Pete_.”

“I won’t,” he promises as he slips the pills back into his pocket.

There's nothing wrong with saving a little bit if sunshine for a rainy day...Right?

**.....**

He could hear the muffled sounds of the television in the background as the morning sun filtered in through the open curtains, casting and ethereal golden glow across the room and over the bed he was currently enveloped in.

Squinting against the sunlight and the throbbing in his head, Patrick carefully brought himself up on his forearms in a lazy stretch, flinching ever so slightly at the dull ache in his lower body, before falling back into the soft sheets with a content sigh.

 _'God, I forgot how good this feels,_ ' he thinks, flashes of last night replaying in his head, of dark hands contrasting beautifully against the creaminess of his hips, of gentle but firm touches all over his body, Patrick's own touches desperately searching for something to hold, to feel...

As he pulls the sheets from his body, he's pleasantly content with the dark marks forming on his hips and thighs, the bite marks, a fading red littering his stomach and fitting in perfectly with the other reminders of last night.

Suddenly, smell of food is drifting from beyond the door, keeping him present instead of letting him fall into the cusp of sleep, not that's he complaining- all he had yesterday was a salad for lunch, the take-out that Travie order that never came (or at least heard them knock) and the many glasses of champagne he had at the after party, giving him the buzz he needed just to get through the pitying glances and apparently comforting touches.

He didn't need any of that, not then and not now...

After carefully stretching once more, relishing in the delicious ache, he finds his discarded boxers scattered on the floor, and slips them on. He picks up a shirt that is too big and too long to be his, but smells like last night and buttons it up over him, laughing softly when he catches his reflection in the full length mirror at how the shirt falls over his thighs.

He's more than sure Travie would enjoy the look.

Rolling up the sleeves as best as he could, his bare feet pad over the plush carpet of the bedroom and out the door into the open floor plan of the lavish hotel room, the smell of food and the sound of the television playing in the background amplified when he opens the door.

Patrick's greeted by the back of a shirtless Travie whistling as he stood at the room-service cart, blushing at the slight of angry red scratch marks against his the back tattoos that decorated his skin, and at how deliciously low his sweatpants hung on his hips.

' _Maybe I got a little too...desperate...last night_ ' he thought mentally, quietly making his way to the room.

Travie must had heard him coming, because he looked over his shoulder with a lazy grin that make Patrick feel like he woke up this morning, stratified and warmed by sunlight. "Mornin', baby boy."

"Morning," he greeted softly, walking over to wrap his arms around Travie's waist from his side after gently kissing the red marks on his back in a quietly apology. The other man easily tucked the singer under his arm, kissing the crown of his head as the blonde melted into his side, molding into him.

"You woke up okay?" The taller of the two asked gently, his arm curling a little tighter around him, not that Patrick minded one bit, he misses being physically close to someone, he misses the tender touches and careful kisses...but he has that with Travie right now.

Patrick quickly pushes those thoughts away and smiles up at the rapper, fingers dancing along the dark, inked skin along the band of his sweatpants, not too much teasing, just touching. "Yeah, just a little sore but I feel amazing," he smiles.

Travie chuckles, placing another kissing on his messy bed head, his hands trailing along his ribs over the too big shirt he was wearing. "Well considering last night, you _look_ amazing. I was worried I went a little rough on ya..."

"Nah, I'm fine," he reassured, the ache in his lower body was dulling, but it was still there, a pleasant reminder of last night, of hands on his hips and lips against his neck, of moaning and the pleasure he hadn't felt in months...

He wanted to feel guilty, he wanted to feel guilty that he slept with Travie, that it was Travie's cock he was riding last night, that it was Travie's hands roaming his body, lighting him on fire with every touch, every kiss, every endearment and dirty encouragement he had whispered into his ear as he laced flushed and panting against the silk soft sheets of the bed...He wanted to feel that bone deep guilt and regret when it was Travie's name he had cried out in his moment of absolutely ecstasy...

But Patrick didn't.

There was no guilt, no regret, no shame...well, not to the extent he was preparing for.

Travie wasn't Pete. And, if Patrick was honest with himself, that was the whole point of this- to get over Pete, to move on, or try too...

And truthfully, Travie was right, sex doesn't cure anything, but it made him feel good, it made him feel again. Did he feel guilty? Maybe a little, but not because of Pete, but because he might have taken advantage of his best friend...but because of Pete, no.

Because if Pete can fuck so many other's behind his backs while they were in a relationship, why can't he screw around when they're not. At least Patrick had the decency to wait.

He lets his thoughts fade to the back of his mind before he turns his attention back to Travie, catching sight of the red scratch marks over his shoulder that were clearly from last night. "Sorry about your back though, I didn't mean to scratch you up that bad."

"It's cool, Pretty Boy," he says easily. "I gotta say though, this morning-after look sure does look good on ya. You're a pretty sight in my shirts."

"Like old times?" Patrick grins mischievously, a playful glint in his hazel blue eyes.

" _Hells yeah_. Like ol' times."

Patrick laughs, burying his face into Travie's side. It feels warm and right to be this close to Travie, it brings back so many memories of not just last night, but about how close they were, they support they had for one another when it wasn't just sex.

Above all, Patrick's glad it was Travie who brought him back to his suite last night. The morning after doesn't feel awkward with Travie like it did when Patrick would date and hook-up. It was more relaxed, but Patrick assumed it was because no matter what, they both knew they couldn't be anything more than best friends, and that the amazing sex was just an added plus. Patrick doesn't think he'd be in the right mindset to have this with anyone else but Travie, and honestly he wouldn't want it any other way.

 He doesn't move as Travie lifts the cloche. "Breakfast?'

"Omelets. You need to eat, somethin', baby boy, and I don't wanna hear it no ifs, ands,or buts. You want veggie only or with ham?"

Patrick rolls his eyes before answering." Fine. Veggie only please." Patrick peels himself away as he moves to get the plates provided by the hotel and the make his own cup of coffee.

"Your manager called, a little while ago," Travie calls out, as he piles fruit on the plate next to Patrick's omelet. "I told him I'd watch you today, if that was cool with you, just to give you a break from everything...figured we can hang out and make get that beat factory in your head to start working if you're up to it."

Patrick smiles. "Yeah, that sounds good. Got something new planned for Gym Class Heroes, McCoy?"

"You know it. I got a beat in my head and some lyrics on my phone, maybe we can come up with somethin', get those music making juices flowin?' "

Patrick takes the plate of food from Travie when he perfects his coffee, and then sits down on the sofa beside him as he nibbles on the fruit that was served next to his omelet. "Yeah, I'm down, so what do you have in mind?"

When Travie flopped down beside him, his own plate in hand, they talked animatedly about music, bouncing ideas off of each other, sharing rhythms and lyrics using the laptop Travie had brought along with him.

The lyrics were good, simple, but something about them struck a chord deep within Patrick, it was about coming home and being lonely, and somehow, during all of it, a mental image of Pete flashed briefly in his head, causing his smile to waver ever so slightly as they hammered out a rough demo of a new track over the course of a few hours.

There were other lyrics that Travie has on his phone, some very _suggestive_ lyrics...Patrick took the distraction and played along, sending sly glances the rapper's way as he sang the sultry words breathlessly, lowly, placing as he worked, all under the watchful eyes of Travie, who had yet to put on a shirt, but instead simply lounged on the sofa, long limbs stretched out and miles of dark tattooed skin that could go on for _days_...

At one point, he rolled his hips to the beat, letting himself get a lost in the beat he and Travie had created, eyes hooded as he makes his way back over to the rapper on the sofa, who's now grinning back at him as he continues to sing.

"Since when did you become this sexy little kitten," Travie chuckles, beckoning the blonde over to take a seat in his lap.

"I don't know, I guess now that I'm single," he begins with a purr in his voice, rolling his hips seductively dirty in his lap, undoing the button of the shirt he had been wearing all morning. "Maybe I just wanna have a little more fun..." he lies with a bite to his bottom lip, a flush on his cheeks. It wasn't fun he was looking for, he knew that, and _Travie_ must know that too, but is willing to indulge him. It was never fun, but maybe _love_ and _affection_ , hell maybe even _attention_ that he was looking for...

Whatever he was looking for, he was getting it in the way Travie's hands ran up his chest and down to his hips, the dark of his skin playing beautifully against the creaminess of his own, even when the rapper was helping him out of the boxers he had been wearing, leaving Patrick in only the white button up shirt that was already falling off his shoulders.

Before he knew it, he was laying flat on his back against the seats of the sofa, his best friend's heated, lustful gaze bearing into him and he towered over the singer, Travie’s erection straining against the front of the sweatpants that were currently being pushed down his hips.

All thoughts of Pete and the song and the lyrics quickly vanished from Patrick's mind when the slick, blunt head of Travie's thick cock found his entrance and gently pushed inside of him, causing him to gasp out, throwing his head back of the fullness as Travie quietly cursed out. " _Fuck_ , baby boy, how are ya still _tight_..."

Patrick didn't know, and frankly, Patrick didn't care. All that mattered was that he was getting fucked, that Travie was willing to give him exactly what he needed right now without judgement, and honestly, _sex_ , other than music, was the only thing that felt _right._  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap I havent updated this since September....I'm sorry!!!!! Please don't kill me! (Plus I'm a sucker for TravTrick, sorry! but Peterick is my OTP <3)
> 
> What took so long to get this one out? Writer's block and honestly just a lack in inspiration. I actually have planned out how I want this fic to end, so this one should be another 4-6 more chapters until the end, so I've still got a while to go. 
> 
> I'm hoping to get a little bit of writing done, as I'm taking a little bit of time off from work to do some other things, as I'm currently trying to get my teaching certification. So there maybe some updates in the works, but I seriously do apologize for the four to five month wait for updates on this one...yikes...I'm so so sorry...
> 
> That being said, a huge shout-out to my awesome friend and Beta [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) who kicks my but into gear whenever I have a fanfic idea and who picked at my brain back in November to get the general idea of this fic flushed out, I don't think I could have figured out this fic without her <3\. 
> 
> And as always, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) so feel free to stop by and leave an ask in my ask box with ideas, suggestions, if you just wanna talk, or just want to scroll through my reblogs and ramblings (nothing special I swear, but hey, shameless self-promoting). Comments, constructive criticism, kudos, and feedback are more than welcomed.
> 
> Thank you my dears for reading, for sticking with these fics, and with me! And hopefully the next update wont take so long (fingers crossed).
> 
> -Xoxo


	9. Going Under, Drowning in You

He needs to get out, he needs to run away and hide, but everything is too close too loud, and _too fucking much_ … 

His head is a furry, a tempest of searing self-hate and violent truths, and he can’t stand it.

Pete’s pushing past the throng of people in this crowded hotel bar that they’re having an afterparty in, nameless faces with tempting touches, hands reaching out to grab him, to touch him, limbs like vicious vines sprouting from the ground, tangling around him, curling around any part of him they could manage- his shirt, his arm, his hand, his soul...they want to draw him in with their tempting hips and feline like smiles, they want poison him, to taint him black with the lead like guilt, holding him down, drowning him the the ocean of his own hate-stewed thoughts, a siren out at sea and no one to pull him back up…

No one cares for a drowning soul in a sea of people, only the body that’s left behind.  

A bubble of panic rising in his chest, the anxiety threatening to tear him apart limb by limb as he sees the welcomed shine of elevator doors.

His heart is racing, his pulse is pounding, and goddamn it, he can’t _breathe_.

When he reaches the door, he jabs the bottom repeatedly. hard enough that he’s sure it would jam. But the doors open, and as soon as it does, he hurls himself into it, falling onto the elegant flooring is a graceless heap, a stain of black and panic against the white marbled tile.

There’s no one in sight, and frankly, the bassist is glad, there’s only so much humiliation he could take at times, but  right now, he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s a roadside freak-show, to _‘ooo’_ and _‘aww’_ at, to be ridiculed, whose life and misery sold to others for entertainment on the front page covers of the tabloid.

_‘They’re all looking, they’re all laughing’_ crackles his mind, as he frantically looks around for wondering eyes, his paranoia a long lost unwanted friend who worked their way back into his existence,whispering fears and fallacies into his ear with sugar-spun sweetness, preying on his fears and insecurities, weaving its way to his heart like a snake through brush, curling around him, strangling him. _‘Look at how pathetic you are…’_

Pete’s panting, chest heaving, as another wave of panic comes over him, slamming into him, knocking him down, making him drown. Somehow he manages to crawl over to the panel of buttons, eyes frantic, his body shaking, desperate, his legs too weak to help him stand, fearing they’ll collapse under his own weight and the weight of his thoughts making it _impossible_. He slams his fist over the number of his floor repeatedly until the door closes, locking him inside with his own frantic mind and anxiety-induced adrenaline pumping through his veins.

It’s agonizing seconds as the elevator rises, the pressure behind Pete’s eyes building with tears that threaten to fall from his eyes.

It’s too much, it’s too fucking much he can’t stand it….

_You brought this upon yourself_

“Shut up…” Pete heaves into the metal walls of the elevator, his head falling between his knees from where he’s slumped by the panel. “Shut up, _shut up_!”

But his mind doesn’t stop, his thoughts are relentless and racing as they take him back to only a few moments ago. Everything had been fine, he was able to _forget_ if only for a minute, a blissful moment of ignorance, until the glass he had been treading so carefully started cracking under his feet.

Someone had come up to him, he doesn’t recall a name, but he knew they were familiar, a girl with long, pin straight hair and vibrant green eyes.She had patted his shoulder, congratulated him on his show, before averting her eyes, looking unsure of what she was about to say next, and Pete could practically feel they're pull of the tidal wave that was forming, that was about to crash over him.

He should have ran, should have trusted his instinct, followed his gut and left, but he didn’t, he couldn’t, invisible tendrils of sick curiosity latching on, holding him in place, when she had said “I thought you should know...Patrick’s seeing someone…”

His heart, the shallow shell of what it was, fucking dropped, lying on the floor beneath his feet, red against the slowly splintering glass. He didn’t mean to grab her phone so roughly, to carelessly yank it out of her hand, opened to an instagram picture.

And there, in high- definition clarity, was the snapshot image of Patrick, the blonde faded back into his cinnamon blonde, dressed in a simple t-shirt and snug jeans, leather jacket hanging off his frame in the dark of the night,illuminated by what appeared to be the lights of a club. However, his eyes were drawn to the man who accompanied the singer, bringing Patrick lithe body flushed against his own. He knew the man, the familiar tall, dark-skinned, heavily tattooed Travie McCoy, who was leaning against a doorway, arm around Patrick’s too thin wrist ( _and dear God has Patrick been eating? Taking care of himself?… he's too thin, it’s not right_ ) as the blonde reached up, standing on his toes, hards resting on the darker man’s forearms as they kissed, the slightest pink of tongue captured in the image, even at the distance it was taken from.

“He’s been spotted with McCoy, on more than one occasions,” the girl informed, her voice intinged with sadness...and _something_ more that he couldn't place as Pete helplessly gawked, to heartbroken and jealous to form words. Patrick was his, his to touch, his to kiss, his to hold, but the harsh reality of everything was settling deep into his bone, straight into his soul, the darkness and numbness that came with his own self-induced heartbreak filling him like ice- _Patrick wasn't his anymore._ “There’s more pictures, from different clubs….I just,” the girl paused. “I just thought you should know.”

She took back her phone from his shaky grasp, unable to move or speak, the image of Patrick kissing another man, his mind supplying images of Patrick sleeping with him, of him moaning under McCoy, arching his back as he came because of them…

And not _him_.

There was a shift in the girl’s eyes, emerald turning into a cold, flat viridian as she stared down the stunned bassist.

“You broke him,” she hissed, her voice dripping with toxic malice, seeping into his skin, “and I hope you _rot in hell_ for what you did. You fucked him up, you fucked up everything you touch.”

And the glass shattered into thousands of pieces, the wave pulling him down, dragging him underneath the raging tide, and he can’t stop it. His thoughts were always safe inside his head, but to hear them spoken to him by a stranger….

It crushed him in a way he never knew they could.

They validated everything he had always thought.

And they cemented everything he was, a failure, a fuck-up, a monster. He had always promised himself he wouldn’t drag others down with him, but Patrick...Patrick was his unwilling victim, the name written in red in his ledger.

He broke him, and there’s no way to get him back, not when he’s moaning someone else’s name, letting someone else, who isn’t Pete, touch him the ways he knew how, making him come undone.

And now he’s having another full-blown panic-attack in an empty elevator with all the ringing in his ears and the images burned into his head.

“ _I hope you rot in hell for what you did”_

And God, did he want to. He deserved it and more, he was certain.

Everything hurt, every fiber in his body aches, but he finds it in himself to unfurl from his pathetic ball on the floor of the elevator and drag himself to his room, unlocking the door after fumbling helplessly with the key as his thoughts get louder, the snickering and the chatter amplified in in the dark corners of his mind— too much to stand, too much to bear.

He throws himself into his room, desperately digging into his duffel, clothes flying through the air during his frantic search until he finds what he was looking for- a little plastic bag of bright yellow tablets.

Sunshine in a pill, silence in a bag.

_You promised him you you never get this low_ teases something in his mind and he shakes out one pill into his palm, the promise of peace seconds away. _You promised you would never do this again…_

But Patrick’s not here, not anymore. What’s the point of keeping a promise when you lost the one you made it to.

  
He throws back a pill, and another for luck, happiness in a swallow, the bitter of liquid amnesia on his tongue. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s taking, but the effects are instantaneous, the world around him blurs and fades as his mind quiets, if only for a minute, while his body tingles and numbs. Pete can’t feel his fingers, his feet, and the room is spinning , lights dancing in his shadowed vision as he leans against the floor of his hotel bed as his mind dissipates. 

There’s nothing left but the cold-shallow feeling of his shell of a body and the silent tears that fall down his face.

Damn him for being so weak, for falling back down this hole, for not being able to handle his own fucking problems…

Damn him for driving away the only person that would be willing to catch him as he falls, to hold him and help him stand up in his time of miserable, pathetic weakness . Patrick’s not waiting at the end of the line to pick him up, not anymore.

How could he when Patrick’s moving on without him, while Pete continues to bury himself in the past, digging himself into a tomb surrounded by painful memories and reminders of the life he destroyed with his own two hands, the future he shattered in a manic high.

Pete thinks about him, even in his doped up haze, the light that brought so much hope and happiness into his miserable existence with just a single smile and a gentle kiss, who breathed life and love, his golden muse that was the words and music that followed through his being, that made the words flow, sweet as honey, pouring like summer rain…. he slipped right through his fingers because he was too foolish to hold on.

If only the pills could make the memories of Patrick fade into nothingness...

But then what would Pete have left to hold on to? 

.//. 

“ _Paps snapped pics of u and Travie. Be careful_ ” read the text that Patrick had gotten earlier from his manager. That had been hours ago, and frankly Patrick didn’t care to respond.

Not when he already three bottles in and it wasn’t even past six.

“Baby boy, you need to slow down,” Travie drawled out gently as he snatched the bottle of Jack Daniels from an already drunk Patrick’s hand.

“Nooo,” the singer whined, child-like, reaching out from where he laid on the sofa of his apartment over to the taller man. “Trav, give it baaacck”

Somberly, Travie shook his head, walking over to the kitchen to dump the remaining contents of the bottle into the sink, the sight of the amber liquid going down the drain making Patrick groan pitifully.

“I needed that!”

“You need a shower, baby,” the taller of the two countered without missing a beat, trashing the bottle and moving over the intoxicated blonde. “Come on,” Travie coaxed, hands finding their place just above alarmingly bony hips. “Damn, ‘Trick, when was the last time you ate?”

“Me s’not hungry…”

“ S’not a excuse, Pretty Boy.”

When he was brought up, the world started spinning, and if it weren’t for Travie having a good grip on him, Patrick would have been tumbling onto the floor. The world was spinning, but Patrick felt weightless and blissfully out of it, listless.

For once, he could forget about Pete.

Somehow he ends up falling against the dark, tattooed rapper, before a drunken thought crosses his mind. Flushed with alcohol coursing through his veins, Patrick’s deft fingers slowly trailed down his chest, making a tantalizing beeline to his jean-clad groin, fingers molding around the familiar shape of the thick cock in his jeans, stroking ever so playfully.

Travie had become his latest distraction, and ever since the award show after-party, they’ve had more than their fair share of sex and heavy makeout, each time they did, Patrick would will himself to forget, force himself to focus on Travie’s cock stretching him without prep to the point of tears, the feeling of his cock pulsing in him, filling up to the brim rather than the heartbreak numbing his chest. Sex made him _feel_ like he hadn’t in so long, and Travie, ever the best friend, was always willing to indulge Patrick.

Until _now_.

His dark hand wraps around Patrick’s pale, fragile wrist, halting his ministrations. “None of that, Baby Boy...I know what you’re doing,” Travie says without an malice in his tone, only softness and calm that came with the rapper’s laid-back attitude.

“ _Bu_ _t I want it_ ,” Patrick whines, moving in closer, slotting himself perfectly against the rapper, but Travie wasn’t taking the bait, so Patrick resorts to desperate measures. “Please, Travie, I want your cock in me,” he whispers, his voice low and rasp and dripping with sex and promise. “I wanna feel you, baby, want to feel you in me. I _need_ you…”

“No, ‘Trick, ya don’t,” Travie sighs, moving Patrick’s body from where he was rutting against, his face stern, leaving no room for arguments.

“ _Travie, please_ …” God, Patrick was desperate for it, practically gagging for it, and if he were somber and in a stable state of mind, he would have felt humiliated for going so low, for begging like a cheap whore, but he _needed_ it. He needed Travie to make him forget, to fuck him senseless and made the world around them turn black until the only thing he could feel in the delicious ache between his thighs the next morning and the marvel at the bruises left behind. Sex was the only thing, other than alcohol and music, that kept Patrick’s sane. And now, Travie isn’t fucking him…

“ ‘Trick, we ain’t gonna fuck,” Travie said with firm finality. “Go take a shower and you’re not gonna to go to sleep until you eat somethin’ baby…”

Without meaning to, Patrick weakly shoves off of Travie, causing the taller man to stumble back, eyes wide, and while the force and strength of the action itself lacked, the intention was clear as day. He hears the rapper sigh, giving him a soft, “Come on, now, Baby, don’t be like that…” but Patrick doesn’t pay attention, words falling on deaf ears as drunkenly makes his way over to his room, finally reaches the bathroom, and nearly collapses once the door closes behind him.

Fuck Travie for not giving him what he needs, fuck him for not taking him, for helping him feel better….

Patrick’s booze-laden mind begins to wonder, the dark swirls of his thoughts churning, festering...thinking…

If Travie can’t give him what he needs, Patrick’s sure he wouldn’t have trouble finding _someone_ who _does_...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can honestly say that without some serious brainstorming sessions with [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) this one (chapter AND story in general) would have taken longer to get hammered out, and for that I am forever thankful for her awesomeness and endless support.
> 
> And as always, comments, kudos, feedback is always welcomed, and I cannot thank you all enough for those who still read this angst-filled monstrosity. As for the future of this one—it’s gonna get a whole lot worse before it even starts getting better. 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed 
> 
> -Xoxo


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